


Stik

by JulianObviouslyLovesToad



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Genital Torture/Mutilation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Non-Descript Vomiting, Panic Attacks, Post-Series, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Sexual Content, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 01:02:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7736977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulianObviouslyLovesToad/pseuds/JulianObviouslyLovesToad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finally home, Garak finds himself up to his aural ridges in requests for clothing. Scrubs for the barely functioning hospitals, children's clothes for the orphanages, cheap, efficient uniforms for the civilian construction workers - surely another tailor must've survived the war? He's convinced that it's another way to keep him isolated from his people, but Cardassia has use for his talents yet. </p><p>The afterlife isn't quite what Damar expected. That's probably because he isn't dead, but he has been through an ordeal that the Humans might call Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Day Before

**Author's Note:**

> As this takes place post-series, there will be spoilers. There will also be flashbacks to and verbal descriptions of torture. 
> 
> Any Cardassian words used in this fic were found in tinsnip and Vyc's English-Kardasi dictionary, any incorrect usages of them are my mistake.
> 
> As this my first Star Trek fanfic, there are bound to be errors and inconsistencies. Feel free to point them out. In fact, it would be appreciated.

Garak sniffed then let out a short, shallow sigh. He should have been happy, he figured, that the dreadful rains had finally stopped. He’d never minded a little moisture, however it seemed like the Federation didn’t know how to control a planet’s precipitation without potentially freezing its inhabitants to death. He supposed he should be grateful and, in a way, he was. The calculated rains allowed for better planning of the effort to rebuild, and the replicators as well as the medical supplies had been helpful, if one could let the slight slide. Most did, including Garak the majority of days.

His pride had torn his throat on the way down like the spiny skin of a desert fruit, but the first child to run out of the makeshift hospital without sunken, reddened eyes and a cough had soothed the strain down to an ache that could someday be forgotten. The youth had done nothing to deserve this suffering, and could sparsely understand why the adults - the leaders in particular - had feigned, though not entirely, offence at the offer of manpower and technology. Of course, the Federation had come to know the Cardassian Union entirely too well and had insisted, insinuating that they could do much, much worse than a dozen industrial replicators and enough medical supplies to create or supplement a hospital in every major city.

Garak took a deep breath and held it for a moment, stirring the eggs in the pot-like cooking tool Doctor Bashir would have surely compared to a wok. He’d learned so much about the intricacies of so many human cultures thanks to the young man that he tried to put from his mind for the time being. Though he had to admit that the musty basement of his bombed out childhood home had the perfect atmosphere to lament the things he’d lost, not that he’d really lost Julian. The good doctor had come right down to the capitol with the first wave of relief workers and had sought him out the moment he had a little free time. Garak treated his friend to outrageously overpriced fruit from one of the street vendors come in from the outskirts of the city, from some of the few vineyards that hadn’t been completely savaged by the bombings. He’d politely turned Julian away from seeing where he was staying, promising the young man that his accommodations were surely better.

_”But, Garak! We’re in disassembled shuttle pods. Little four by fours with two cots and a heating and cooling unit.”_

_”My point still stands,” giving a curt nod before taking a sip of the rosewater his young friend had so kindly provided him._

Garak wanted to turn in, to let his subconscious take him back to Deep Space Nine and the people he’d grown to care about. The night’s chill would see to it that, for a brief period of time, Garak found himself in the replimat with his dear doctor, Starfleet personnel milling about – Chief O’Brien waving, Captain Sisko giving a brief nod and the unbearably sweet new Dax girl running a hand over Julian’s shoulders and giving her lover’s Cardassian company a sweet smile before wandering off. Garak liked the young lady, he really did, but he thought she was ill suited to his lunch companion, his own feelings aside. His own feelings aside, Ezri, while sweet, compassionate, caring and all of those other qualities humans sought in a counselor, she was a bit green. Garak wondered if that was the saying. Perhaps it was ‘wet behind the ears.’ Cardassians had a saying – white in the scales – and it applied to the young Dax. She hadn’t even figured herself out yet, and there she was, dragging Julian along with her to stumble through life. In Garak’s expert opinion, the doctor needed someone mentally stimulating. While having eight lifetimes of experience and enough stories to last the rest of the time shared with Julian, she still had trouble differentiating between her feelings and those of previous hosts. Garak strongly suspected that the young couple’s feelings for each other hinged on Jadzia.

Garak found that he wouldn’t have minded so much if he’d lost Julian to Jadzia. He rather liked her. She was witty, talented, sure of herself, perhaps a little over bold, but most importantly, she’d never grown to trust Garak. She flirted very much like a Cardassian, stringing poor Julian along, holding her ground in an argument. He allowed himself a smile as he turned the eggs over once more, thinking that, no, he could have lived with that, would have given them his blessing. Even if the words left unsaid were rotting him from the inside.

The smile quickly faded, along with his desire to let his mind go into the embrace of sleep. He couldn’t anyway, since Haneri hadn’t come by to pick up his work and deliver yet another set of requests. Lately it had been scrubs. He wondered why those at the hospitals couldn’t just replicate them, but figured it a way to keep him in some sort of exile still. He’d rather be out, working at a building site, bringing all of the world’s important functions back online. Yet, here he was, living in the dimly lit basement, sewing uselessly and trying to rebuild the house above on his own dime, which was growing slimmer and slimmer by the day.

He’d had to reinforce the ceiling of his little basement abode, and a few _taspar_ had taken up residence in the ruins of Garak’s childhood home. Though that cut down on food costs for the time being, the man supposed, they were filthy creatures that would need to be run off eventually, if he intended to make the place livable again. His eggs a healthy tan, he turned off the heating plate and broke up the solid mass with a wooden spoon. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but Mila’s words haunted him frequently enough that he managed to eat once or twice a day.

He was losing weight, but he wasn’t worried yet. He no longer needed the padding that the space station’s chilly climate had required of him. He’d start to worry once he dropped below seventy-seven kilograms. He had several yet to go before that even became a possibility.

He let his thoughts drift to Haneri as he waited for her to arrive, portioning out his eggs with the wooden spoon. She was a rather stocky woman with broad hips and broad shoulders. She didn’t wear any makeup and had an affinity for shapeless, tan trousers. Garak had considered pursuing her in his loneliness. He had maybe a decade on her, Garak estimated, and figured she must be a few years older than Julian. She wasn’t particularly attractive by Cardassian standards – her hips were up to snuff, but she wasn’t as slender as most men preferred, and her shoulders weren’t as carefully sloped, but she was quick-witted at least, even if she wasn’t punctual. She certainly knew how to throw a niggling insult that would sit and fester for days. Garak often wondered, in this wasteland where the hearty were valued more than the haughty, if Haneri would be a prime example of what would become of the Cardassian standard of beauty. In the rapidly changing social environment, he had no doubt that she would, and that he would lose her to some younger man whose shoulders didn’t slope so delicately. He would lose her to a young man who wasn’t starting to wrinkle about the temples and had an even _chufa_ , and he wouldn’t even put up a fight.

He thought back to Ziyal and could feel his scales blanching. Garak stopped with the spoon to his lips, his mouth firmly closed. He would have eventually given in to her, he knew. After she matured, completed her education. After Dukat had died. He would have given in to what they had in common, and it would have been enough. She would have seen to that. She would have seen to it that they would’ve been happy in their outcast status, finding a home in each other. Their lives would have been tasteful, dignified and beautiful. Maybe they would have had a family. Garak managed a laugh at that and forced himself to finally put the eggs in his mouth. Family was everything to a Cardassian, and Garak had given everything, including his right to marry and have a family of his own, in the service of his mother; _Kardasia_. Aside from that point, and the fact that Ziyal was dead making his meandering thoughts irrelevant, he figured he would have lost her too, probably to a Bajoran boy, and dropped the matter.

Garak managed three bites of the eggs and a long, internal rant about what his life had become, nearly ready to ask someone into his life just for company when it wasn’t so long ago that a smile could have his desired partner’s knickers about their knees, before Haneri had arrived. She banged her fist against the cellar door three times, and Garak waited a tick before yelling, “yes, come in,” and she did.

Without a word, she handed him a PADD, and Garak barely hid a grimace. It seemed Starfleet technology was cropping up everywhere these days, even with the relief workers gone. “These look sturdy,” she said, taking one of the bundles Garak had prepared under her arm.

“Yes. It’s too bad you won’t be wearing them. I think they’d rather suit you.” She barked out a laugh in response and grabbed a second bundle.

“I would never,” she said with a shake of her head. “I did hear a good rumor,” she said, a glint of mischief in her dark eyes.

“Oh?” Garak asked, interest piqued.

She grunted an affirmative and hiked up the bundles under her arms. “I’ll tell you after I get half of this loaded,” and with that she took the stairs two at a time.

Garak moved the tied stacks closer to the stairs to assist her in the process, and thought about going up to check on his fledgling garden, but the draft that weaseled its way in changed his mind on that. Haneri finished all but one trip before she graced Garak with the rumor; “I heard that Damar was seen alive in aThela’or.”

Garak’s breath caught, and he was grateful that his back was to Haneri so she couldn’t see the emotions that flashed across his features. A slight widening of the eyes for his surprise, his nostrils flaring and his lip curling up at the hot flash of anger that took hold of him. He let the breath out and plastered on a smile, as difficult as it was. _She couldn’t have known the man died in my arms,_ he reminded himself to stay calm. He wouldn’t want an angry outburst to be taken as flirtation, not at this juncture. He turned and cocked his head slightly, his smile and tone of voice becoming a bit patronizing; “my dear, that’s such a wildly, insanely ridiculous idea.”

“Of course it is,” Haneri groused, rolling her head along with her eyes, “but the people want something to believe in.”

“Yes, but chasing spectres like in tales for children?”

She shrugged. “It probably came from the increased military presence at the Nicez hospital. I’ll see what I can dig up on the happenings in aThela’or.”

“I would appreciate it,” Garak said with a minute tilt of his head in her direction.

With the last bundle of scrubs under one arm, Haneri gave a stiff, shoulder-height salute and closed the door behind her.

Garak walked to the top of the steps and listened until her small craft had left. He walked back down the steps, adjusting the sleeves of his solid black tunic, just for something to do with the nervous energy building up inside of him. He looked at the wok and heating plate, then walked past it. He took a sip from a long, flat container of water that had been perched against a table and sat it down carefully. He looked at the workshop that had taken up a third of his home, ran a finger over the light clipped above his most portable large-quantity sewing machine. Finally alone and possessed with rage, he grabbed the light, the slender, delicate box of wires and tubes and humming with electricity, and smashed it on the ground. He kicked the largest piece for good measure, not getting the desired effect when it clattered against the far wall.

He sat down heavily on one of the cots, shoved his blankets to the side and leaned over his knees to run his fingers through his hair.

_She couldn’t have known I held him as he gasped out his last breath._

Taking his hands from his hair, he ran the fingers of one hand the edge of the mattress until he felt a familiar shape tucked under the stiff fabric. A cool metal tapered half cylinder and a small finger guard brought him a moment’s comfort. He wouldn’t leave his mother until she truly had no more need for him, but the fact that the option was there gave him the strength to carry on.


	2. One Day

Headaches were becoming a common theme in Garak’s life. He was almost to the point where he could tell the day of the week based on which part of his brain was throbbing, buzzing or aching. A pulsing just above his aural ridges meant the rains had just cleared and it was the first day of the week. The sharp, stabbing, electric pain behind his eyes and reaching far back into his skull meant it was the seventh day, and he’d been under his sewing lamp for far too long. A pressure behind his nose that made him feel like his ocular ridges were trying to pry themselves from his face meant it was the twelfth and final day of the week, and the rains were in full effect.

Garak’s ears constantly felt wet although they were anything but. The blood just under the scales and skin straining against their captors created the sensation of platelets working their way free to drip down the curved path, and Garak swiped at the phantom sensation as though it were an insect. He swallowed a few times to rid himself of the sensation, but when it failed to get the desired results, he sat up and tilted his head back with a frustrated sigh. The scrubs he was working on were thrown down on the table so he could lift his hands to his ears to try to rub the headache out. Once more finding no relief, he showed himself to his cot and, kicking off his shoes – a simple pair of loafers – laid down.

Just as he’d started to drift and the headache had turned from a nuisance to a mind-numbing fuzz that aided his quest for unconsciousness, a knock sounded at the door. A heavy-handed knock that meant business. State Business.

Garak sat himself up with a great deal of effort, adrenaline abuzz under his scales. He stood and straightened himself out, headache pushed aside temporarily by excitement and anxiety. He straightened his clothes and slipped his shoes back on before ascending the stairs as quickly as possible.

“Gentlemen,” he addressed the small group upon opening the door. Two slightly rumpled uniformed officers regarded him with slight forward tilts of their heads. As Garak’s eyes were drawn to the third man, a man whose face was shrouded under the protection of a hooded rain slicker with exaggerated lapels, the broader of the soldiers spoke to draw his attention;

“Elim Garak?” he rasped, clearly succumbing to the midweek dust. Garak turned a pleasant smile on the man after he managed to drag his eyes from the mysterious stranger.

“That depends on who is asking,” he answered, inclining his head toward them as they had done to him. “Ah, please, come in,” Garak said, taking careful backward steps down the stairs, “do watch your step.” He took a metal cup from a plastic cupboard he’d recently purchased and dipped it into a vat of clean water under a drip that lead up to a softly whirring distillation unit, and further up, out of the basement. “Would you like a drink? I do apologize, but all I have is water.” Garak extended the cup to the broader of the officers. He looked to the smaller of them, firm-looking eye ridges raised in question. The slighter officer nodded toward the third man, allowing the first to accept the cup with a deep and grateful nod. He took a long pull and made a soft sound of pleasure before passing the cup to the second officer. “Now, gentlemen, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“Sir?” the broader soldier asked, looking toward the hooded man.

“What are you waiting for?” the hooded man groused, “explain our situation.” Garak cocked his head even further, a clear invitation to continue. That voice was so familiar, though he didn’t recall it being that rough. No, rather, the ghost with the similar voice always spoke in a clear and stately manner unless enraged to the point of hissing. Merely a coincidence, Garak was certain. He reluctantly peeled his eyes from the shrouded figure when the broad man started speaking again;

“Of course, sir,” he said with a brief, but deferential nod, quickly turning his attention to Garak. “You are aware that after the Dominion fell, the Vorta and the Jem’Hadar fled back to the Gamma Quadrant on the orders of the female changeling, who then stayed for a very public trial held by the Federation.”

“Yes. A surprisingly public trial for the Federation. Perhaps they’ve learned something from us, after all,” Garak said, his lips stretching through the motion of a forced smile.

“We can only hope,” the officer said quickly before resuming his tale; “However, as I’m sure you are also aware, a few groups of Jem’Hadar stayed behind.” At this, the man in the unnecessary coat shifted a bit. At the small movement, Garak’s eyes darted to him. He could almost see the discomfort rippling through the tall, slight man’s scales. “Went rogue, if you will. With the war decidedly over, and agitated from lack of their nourishment, these rogue cells ambushed a few other ships and-”

“That information has no bearing on the current situation, Alken,” the non-officer hissed. “If you’re so incompetent that you can’t inform someone of The State’s need of him, I will do it and send you back to training.” Oh, that voice was familiar. That tone, that inflection, had Garak’s eyes widening marginally. “Garak,” the man said, reaching filthy, mangled hands up to push his hood back, “I need a place to stay. Hospitals are overwhelmed, and I don’t wish to consume resources I don’t need.”

When the broad officer had started rambling, Garak had turned to fill another cup. He’d meant to offer it to the man in the slicker, but the offer died in his throat upon realizing who he was. “Damar,” he breathed, sounding like the wind had been knocked from him.

“Yes,” Damar said, immediately setting his mouth in a hard line as he stared Garak down. He drew in a breath and sighed without much of a change in his expression. “Do you have the space?” he asked.

“Of course,” Garak said, extending the dented cup toward the wretched spectre. He squeezed the tin tighter, denting it further as Damar turned his gaze down toward the cup.

“Later,” he said, turning his gaze back up to meet Garak’s. ”Leave us,” he said, inclining his chin toward the shorter of the officers with him. “I appreciate your discretion in this matter. I’ll contact you if I need anything else. See to it that Garak’s rations are doubled.” He never broke eye contact with Garak.

“Sir,” they both said, nodding. The shorter man motioned for the broad shouldered man to head up the stairs first, and they gave one last glance down at the two off to one side of the basement before closing the door. Damar and Garak continued to stare at each other as if they were having trouble processing the fact that they were standing there with less than a meter between them.

Garak was the first to break the silence; “Why didn’t you tell me you were still alive? Why wait all this time?” When Damar didn’t immediately answer, the older Cardassian continued, “If you felt that the people would be more inspired with you martyred, you could have told me. I could’ve created a new identity for you, found a place for you to stay off-world, until this blew over.” Garak’s voice started to rise in pitch and volume. “I could have shown you to a surgeon who could have altered your appearance and you could have led the people in getting back on our feet!”

“Garak,” Damar hissed, twisting one set of fingers, that rightly looked like claws at that point, in his own rain slicker about the neck.

“What?” Garak hissed back, setting the cup of water aside before he gave in to the urge to throw something.

“I didn’t know,” Damar whispered.

The silence that followed was almost physical.

“How could you not know?” Garak asked, his voice low, his head tipped down in Damar’s direction.

“I just didn’t know!” Damar suddenly shouted, making Garak recoil. The younger man shoved his gnarled fingers into his hair that had seemingly grown stringy in the recent months and stomped across the room. He found the wall furthest from the door and turned around, pushing his back against it before sliding to the floor. “I thought I _was_ dead. I thought I was being tortured for my failure to see Cardassia back to her former glory.” He tugged on his hair while trying in vain to catch his breath.

“Tortured?” Garak asked, taking a cautious step toward the clearly unstable man. He picked up the tin mug once more, and knelt a little more than arms’ length from Damar.

“I _don’t_ want to talk about it,” Damar forced out through gritted teeth, drawing his knees up to his chest. The closer Garak got, the more the younger man curled in on himself.

Garak took a moment to assess the damage to Damar in an effort to see if he could figure out who had tortured him. One line of scales that trailed into his hairline had been removed entirely. If he could get a closer look, he could make an educated guess as to what tool was used, and thus a species or group. He already suspected Andorian from the specific removal. The scales should grow back, Garak reminded himself as he felt a pang of sympathy for the younger man, if the base tissues they grew from hadn’t been cut out. The smooth skin looked a heathy gray and not a meaty brownish-maroon, so, in a half year or so, the uneven face would return to its former beauty.

Damar’s fingers drew his attention next. They were filthy, and if Garak hadn’t been looking, the dirt would have concealed the fact that several of his nails were missing. The first two on his left hand were missing, and the first, smallest and thumb on his right were entirely gone, thick scar tissue having bubbled up in their place. The smallest finger looked as though it may have had an infection, very dark and crooked. That particular brand of torture reeked of Romulans. They seemed, to Garak, obsessed with hands and the ways the bones could break, and the way the flesh could peel away from them. Or, at least, a few choice members of the Tal Shiar had that fascination.

The only other thing of note that Garak could make out was the fact that Damar’s hair had grown long and thin in the time he’d been gone. He’d have to convince the other to let him trim it as soon as the younger man calmed down.

_First, establish something akin to trust._

“Here’s some water, if you want it,” Garak offered, setting the cup off to Damar’s left. Damar turned his head to look at gave a grunt. “I have some _taspar_ eggs and a couple of spinefruit. I’ll get you a plate, if you like.”

“Don’t bother,” Damar answered, talking more to his knees than to Garak.

“Why not? You do need to eat, you know. Where’s that healthy appetite you used to have, hmm?” When Damar muttered something incomprehensible, Garak leaned up on his knees, reaching forward to run his fingers through Damar’s hair and use a light grip to lift his face asking, “What was that?” Damar reeled back, slapping at Garak’s hand. He sneered at the older man.

“I said, I can’t have solid food anyway, so it would be a waste of time.”

Garak looked at the long strands that remained in his hand, twined around his fingers, to Damar’s glare. His hair had fallen out so easily. “Surely,” he started, shaking the hair from his grip, “they wouldn’t have allowed you leave the hospital if you can’t eat.”

“I forced myself to keep it down so I could get out of there. It will come back up, and probably soon,” Damar said, matter-of-factly.

“Well, the toilet is just over there, behind the curtain. I suppose we can figure out what to get you to eat in the morning. If you need anything, I’ll just be over there, sewing.” Damar snorted in response.

“Sewing,” the younger man said in a disbelieving tone.

“You find that so hard to believe?” Garak asked, getting to his feet. He made a face at the way his knees protested.

“All things considered,” was the only response he received.

“Well, apparently espionage, assassination, interrogation and terrorism are not talents that are currently required. But,” and he forced his voice to take on a jovial tone as he wandered over to the edge of the stairs to gather the cup he’d let the officers drink from, “sewing a straight line is.” He dipped the cup in the clean water, pulling it out about a quarter of the way full. He grabbed a scrap of fabric and came back to Damar. “Really, I’d wanted to help with the housing projects, or work in the fields just outside of town, but two-hundred sets of surgical scrubs aren’t just going to make themselves. Neither will forty slings for the nursemaids at the orphanage, or one-thousand color coded, custom dust-resistant jumpsuits for the different divisions of men and women working on the housing projects.” Garak took a knee in front of Damar again. “Give me your hand,” he said, dipping the cloth in the water.

“Why?” Demar demanded, tucking his gnarled fingers into his armpits.

“I merely intended to wash your hands, that’s all. In case you felt up to eating later.”

“I already told you that I can’t eat.”

“Humor me?” Garak suggested, tilting his head and lifting his chin in an effort to show that he meant the other no harm.

After eyeing the older man for more than a full minute, Damar removed one of his hands from the protection his underarm offered. He reeled back like a snake about to strike while he watched Garak hold up the cloth before taking his offered hand. He leaned his head further back so he could watch both Garak’s expression and what he was doing as his fingers were being scrubbed. Garak made a pleased sound when he finished the first set of fingers, gently placing the cleaned hand down at Damar’s side. As soon as it was released, Damar had different ideas about where it should go, shoving it right back into the warmth of his underarm.

“May I have the other?” Garak asked, holding out his cloth-covered hand for the other, more damaged hand. Damar hesitated even longer for that one. “Come on, you saw what I did to the first. Just a little more of the same again. It wasn’t too bad, now was it?” Damar whimpered, and every muscle in his body seemed to constrict. He tried to make himself as small as possible. “Damar?” Garak asked, raising a brow ridge. “What is it?” His breaths were coming in shallow pants, and he stared off over Garak’s shoulder. “Do you need a moment?” Damar managed to squeeze his eyes shut and nod after a long pause, knowing he needed to have some sort of reaction for Garak. “Very well,” Garak said and sat down.

“Sorry,” Damar eventually murmured. Garak clicked his tongue.

“Don’t worry,” Garak said, lifting his hand from where it had come to rest in his lap. “I’m going to put my hand on your knee, alright?” he asked. Upon receiving a nod, he placed the hand there and gave a gentle squeeze. “It’s a panic attack. I’ve had my fair share of, ah,” and he paused, “acquaintances who’ve dealt with those. Just remember to breathe deeply. Straighten out your body if you need to. I know you feel, hmm, safer when curled up in a ball, but it restricts blood flow and oxygen, and can keep it going longer.” Garak gave Damar a questioning look when he held out his filthy hand.

“You wanted to wash my hands,” Damar explained.

“Ah, yes!” and Garak smiled, picking up the cloth and wetting it once more. As he cleaned the hand, he tried to slyly feel around the smallest finger to see if it was still broken, or if scar tissue had caused the slight deformity.

“It’s broken,” Damar answered on a hiss, his shoulder twitching and his scales rippling while Garak tugged carefully at the awkward bend. “It’s a non-union fracture, sitting off-center. It’ll take a surgery to fix.”

“Why didn’t they fix it at the hospital?”

“I wouldn’t let them touch my hands,” Damar said. “How did you know I was at the hospital, anyway?”

“Rumors spread very quickly these days. It’s the only amusement some people have.” Damar made a non-commital sound in response, and resigned himself to being cleaned. “So,” Garak started, throwing on his overly cheerful persona in order to broach the subject, “what was it that I said or did that caused the panic attack?”

“The First,” Damar whispered.

“What was that, I’m sorry?”

“The First,” the younger man said, raising his voice a bit. Garak did his best not to wince and pull back.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he said, watching Damar look everywhere but his face.

“The First, like _their_ ranking system,” Damar hissed.

“The Jem’Hadar? They’re who did this to you?” Demar nodded by way of answer. Garak clicked his tongue again. “Well, you don’t have to worry about them here. If you can handle the rain and the dust, you’ll be just fine.”

“I know,” Damar snapped, snatching his hand back.

“Well, I should probably get back to work. I’ll lay out a cot and blanket for you. Let me know if you need anything.” Garak patted his own thighs before standing, his right knee making a disturbing popping sound. He grimaced and stretched his legs before moving to his workstation.

Halfway through his sixth all-purpose bag, his newest order, the reality of the situation began to set in.

_Damar is alive._

Upon realizing he was drifting off, his hands numb to the shoulder, eyes wide, breath short, he sat the bag down. It wouldn’t do to stitch the same line another thirty times. He lifted his head and looked around. _Deep breaths, Elim._ The walls were just where he left them.

“Well, I don’t think I’m going to get any more work done today. I’m going to go have a look at my little garden, then I’ll-“ Damar made a noise that was barely audible. “Would you rather I not go?”

“I don’t care what you do,” Damar groused.

“I think I’ll just turn in,” Garak announced his change of plans while turning off the overhead light that he had moved from another part of the basement that morning to replace the broken one. He pulled down one of the couch-like cots from where it had been propped against the wall and grabbed a spare blanket from the same plastic cabinet that held his dishware. After prepping the bed, he found his cleanest nightgown and took it behind the curtain that hid the toilet to change. He placed his shoes on the floor at the foot of his bed before laying back, pulling his worn but warm blanket up with one hand. “Good night, Damar,” he said. “Your bed is ready for you when you’re ready for it.” He didn’t get an answer.

Sleep would prove to be rather illusive, Damar’s occasional shifting not helping matters. Garak found himself tensing when his new charge started shifting around in the near-dark, making his way to the bathroom. The retching noises coming from over the toilet made the older man grimace, his headache returning full blast. He feared that he may end up in the same position as Damar soon if he didn’t relieve the pressure or get some rest. But, it seemed it would be a while yet before he was allowed that much as, even with Damar’s relieved sigh, he wasn’t done and ready to sleep. The younger man fumbled around for the cup of water, and gave another quiet sigh as he drank from it. Before long, he made a pained noise and sat the cup down just a little too hard.

“Drink as much as you want. There’s more in the vat. Help yourself,” Garak said. He couldn’t help his amused smirk when Damar startled. “Sorry,” he said sounding anything but.

After another glass of water, Damar returned to his previous position, curled up against the wall less than three meters from the toilet. Eventually his soft snoring lulled Garak to sleep.


	3. One Week

Damar didn’t speak much. Didn’t do much of anything, really, just remained curled up against the wall, protecting his hands as best he could. He would occasionally wander over to the vat for a cup of water, and take to the toilet to relieve himself, but made no effort to talk to Garak or to eat, or even sleep in a bed like a Cardassian being. For the first couple days Garak made an effort to talk to the younger man, asking questions about his preferences. He rarely got more than a yes or no or an uninterested grunt, but Garak still told his company what he was doing and how long he’d be gone when he left.

He picked up food from the distribution center with his ration card, requesting a small tub of antiseptic gel, a splint and bandages and a hypospray of a low dose painkiller. No one raised an eyeridge; many people treated their own sprains these days. The hospitals were overwhelmed as it was, and basic first aid had been taught in secondary school for generations. The request for a few litres of fertilizer had raised ocular ridges, but Garak supposed that someone with his reputation would be questioned when asking for something that could potentially become an explosive, so he kept the belabored sigh he wanted to heave inside.

He did wind up getting the requested fertilizer, though the amount allotted was smaller than the amount he’d put in for. Garak had accounted for that when making the request, asking for one and a half times what his small garden would need. Only having about two dozen plants, two litres would last the season at least. Perhaps the plants would even grow hearty enough to not need their plastic protection from the rains.

When he returned from his trip, he found Damar sitting in his chair at his workstation, hands still tucked under his arms. He only got the sight of Damar sitting upright like a Person for a moment, the young man’s shock freezing him in place for a moment. He quickly vacated the seat as Garak grabbed the bag he’d set down to open the door.

“Oh no,” Garak said pleasantly. “Feel free to take the chair. I have much to do before I can sit down and resume work.” Damar didn’t respond, and Garak wasn’t expecting him to. He was, however, pleasantly surprised to find Damar getting himself a cup of water instead of curling up against the wall. The younger man eyed Garak, keeping the cup to his lips and his spare hand in his armpit when Garak breezed past him to put the medical supplies in the plastic cabinet. He left the fertilizer by the door and moved about the room, checking on various things like the distillation unit. As Garak pressed a few buttons on it, the machine let out a rapid fire series of beeps, startling Damar. He pushed himself against the wall and stared at the older man. “Just checking the status of the filters, my dear,” Garak soothed. He looked around the room for a large, glass measuring device he could’ve sworn was under the table he’d pushed against the wall to the left when looking toward the door. “Now I’m looking for my large measuring cup,” he announced, moving several skeins of fabric that had been on top of boxes he’d yet to unpack. “I thought I’d left it here, but I suppose not,” Garak said, making a bobbing movement with his head, a common gesture in irritated Cardassians.

Damar didn’t respond to that, either, but Garak didn’t expect him to. He simply carried on, explaining everything he was doing. Garak found it rather therapeutic.

He had developed a tendency to talk to himself in his isolation. Hearing even his own voice would leave him feeling a little less lonely, but the knowledge that someone was listening made him feel downright _good_. He told the younger man stories. Some fabricated, some almost entirely truthful. He would notice, out of the corner of his eye as he gabbed away, an almost imperceptible shift in Damar’s neck and shoulders as the broken hero tried to determine the truthfulness of the tales the older man weaved. Garak simply continued in his tasks, trying to keep his smile out of his voice while peeling and cutting a spinefruit, trying to get to its soft center to spoon out the delectable mush. He mixed it with a few teaspoons of the rosewater Julian continued to send him in his darling care packages, and placed it on an earthenware plate with a thin strip of crisp flatbread. He considered shaving a bit of one of the chocolates Ezri had insisted Julian send onto the fruit and water mixture, but he figured Damar wouldn’t eat it anyway, so the chocolate remained a secret for the time being. He kept talking about the various riding animals he’d observed in his travels, and placed the plate just to the right of Damar’s booted feet.

To Garak’s great surprise and delight, Damar ate the fruit and water mixture in the middle of the night. He’d used the flatbread as a spoon as Garak had intended and nibbled a couple centimeters off of the end. He hadn’t woken to the sounds of retching, so he assumed the thin man must’ve managed to keep it down. He finished the flatbread himself and cleaned off the plate with a scrap of cloth before tossing the cloth in a bin he would later take down the street to the reclamation unit.

Garak continued to mix the innards of a spinefruit with rosewater for Damar each time he made a meal of his own, forcing himself to eat two or more times a day to set an example for his charge. He was pleased to note that Damar cleaned both plates of the fruit mixture left at his feet in the middle of the night and, little by little, the younger Cardassian ate more of the flatbread with it. By the eighth day of that week, and Damar’s fifth day with Garak, the younger man started to eat when his host did. It was progress, even if Damar wouldn’t let himself be drawn into conversation about the food. An inquiry on if he’d liked the fruit or not had only gotten him a quiet, “yes,” and nothing more.

Garak made suggestions that Damar try the food he was eating, but all that would accomplish was a brief glance up from Damar and a mildly irritated look before he turned his attention back to his own food. That changed when Garak foisted a sampling on him rather than suggesting it. He stared at the tablespoon of brownish slop Garak had pushed onto his plate for a few seconds before turning an exasperated look up at Garak.

“They’re called oats,” Garak explained. “A rather hearty Human food. Dry, they keep for months. They can be made any number of ways, ah, with water or milk, various butters or fruit juice,” he trailed off for a moment, watching Damar push the spinefruit mixture around with his chewed-on flatbread. “They can be made salty or sweet, or rather bland if simply made in water. These are a bit on the sweet side. I let them sit overnight in milk and fruit preserves.” Garak gave a nod even though Damar wasn’t looking at him and stood, taking his own food to his workstation. He sat in his chair with his back to the young man, finishing his meal.

“They’re good,” Damar said. Garak could barely contain himself and his broad smile.

That night, Garak pulled out a collapsible tub and drew himself a bath, heating several litres of water on the hot plate. He mixed them with cool ones drawn straight from the vat of clean water, and took a powdered soap and wash cloth from the plastic cabinet. Damar kindly averted his eyes while the older man bathed.

“You should have a bath soon,” Garak remarked, taking special care with his toes and the overgrown claws he hadn’t trimmed in recent days. He scrubbed them with a rough cloth, looking down at them rather than at Damar.

The younger man grunted out an, “unh-uh,” and pushed his hands deeper into his pits.

“Damar,” Gark chastised, “you smell horrific. If it weren’t for the dust dulling my sense of smell and taste, I would’ve made you bathe sooner.” He switched to the other foot, glancing over the egde of the tub in the process. He took in the way Damar’s face scrunched, looking off to his right, staring over into the darkness that encompassed the far left wall of the basement. He noticed the way that the younger man’s ocular scales bunched together, his _chufa_ stretched and a bloodless white with the effort he was putting into scowling. “I’ll make you a nice, hot bath tomorrow and give you some privacy if you like. I’m ahead on my commissions for this week, so I can just go weed the garden and soak up the last of the sun while you get clean.” With both of his feet back under the water, his knees and chest above the soapy fluid that was starting to go from lukewarm to cool, Garak rested his arms on his knees. He watched Damar’s face pinch further. “Oh, my dear. It rains on the last day and a half of the week, and you can feel it coming on the tenth day. It gets quite chilly. I’d like you to bathe before then.” Damar made a dismissive noise and Garak gave a small shake of his head as he dried himself off.

He drained the bath two litres at a time, but didn’t bother to collapse it, fully intending that Damar use it the next day. He emptied the water on his garden, not the least bit worried about the biodegradable soap harming his plants. He turned his small compost heap with a makeshift wooden rake, and headed back inside. He decided he’d finish two more bags before turning in for the night.

About a third of the way into the second bag, Damar decided to speak; “There was a human woman with me. _There_ , I mean.”

Garak didn’t pause in his work, but inclined his head to indicate that he was listening. “Go on,” he offered.

“I think they call the type of Human she was an ‘Asian’,” Damar said, taking his hands from under his arms. He pulled his long sleeved shirt down over his fingers and wrapped his arms around his legs. Garak couldn’t help but think of Chief O’Brien’s wife and he closed his eyes briefly in an attempt to rid his mind of her image and not superimpose her onto whatever tale Damar was about to tell. “We were in the same cell for weeks. We’d even promised to keep in contact after we got out.”

“Oh? Do you remember her name?” Garak asked, keeping a smile that would fool no one in place on his lips.

“Yes, but she’s dead now so it hardly matters,” Damar’s voice turned cold as well as flat.

Garak put the bag down and half turned in his chair with an offer of, “you could send your condolences to her family. Little comfort to you, yes, but they would get some measure of closure.”

“No!” Damar raised his voice for the first time since that first day, shoving his hands back into his brittle hair. Garak turned fully, moving the chair to do so.

“Why not?” Garak asked. “They are, in a way, our allies now.”

“This has nothing to do with Politics!” Damar hissed, flinging his arms out and splaying his hands wide for a moment before shoving them right back in his hair. “They can’t know what they did to her,” he whisper-hissed. “No one can. I’ll take that to my grave!” Damar started to rock ever so slightly, tugging weakly at his hair. He started to whisper a Cardassian nursery rhyme, one with vague descriptions of the monsters and other dangers that walked the streets in the middle of the night. The moral of that particular story was that sometimes it was better to wonder than to know.

“Damar,” Garak said softly, sliding from his seat to sit a few paces from the mumbling man.

“Don’t call me that,” Damar repeated, at least a half-dozen times, hissing quietly.

“Then what would you have me call you?” Garak asked, scooting the slightest bit closer.

“Anything but that. _Anything._ Call me _e’Gir, KratprUt, targ_ , anything but _that_. Damar was a hero, and he is dead.”

An argument was at the tip of his tongue, but Garak swallowed it. He moved closer once more. “How about ‘Corat’ for now, hmm?” he asked, lifting his hands slowly to take Damar’s arms about the wrists. He gently pried the hands from the hair and clasped hands with Damar over the man’s rather hard, bony knees. Damar huffed indignantly. “Why don’t you tell me what happened to your friend, ah,” he trailed off, his voice raising in pitch to indicate a question.

“April,” Damar answered.

“Will you tell me what happened to April?” Garak asked. Demar’s face started to tighten again and he began to shake his head in the negative, so Garak interrupted; “sometimes we need to talk about things or they will haunt us forever.”

“You’ve never talked about anything of the sort,” Damar huffed, slipping his hands out from under Garak’s to cram them, yet again, into his armpits.

“Oh, on the contrary, my dear. I’ve talked to many people about many things that have bothered me. Perhaps I would frame them as someone else’s issue, but the effect is the same.” Garak took his hands back, folding them in his lap.

“Not,” and there was a long pause, Damar staring at the floor between his boots, “not yet.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Garak said with a polite nod. He stood and packed up his work for the day.

He made a small meal for the two of them and put a plate at Damar’s feet, even though he figured the other had been startled out of eating. After Garak ate, he changed into his nightgown and brushed the gel from his hair. He laid on his side, facing away from the dim lighting, blanket pulled up to his waist.

The sound of Damar pulling the plate closer to investigate his food put a smile on the older man’s face, and allowed him the peace of mind needed to drift off.

The following day, Damar seemed lifeless. The only indication that he was still clinging to life was the slow rise and fall of his chest. He ate and drank whatever Garak put in front of him and didn’t fight when Garak tried to put him the bath.

The older man cooed sweet nothings as he washed the stringy hair, trying not to show his worry over just how much fell out from a good scrub. He went on about the special soap he was using instead, another gift from Julian. Or, rather, from the missus O’Brien. He’d never had an occasion worthy of the potpourri soap, until then, he explained. At the mention of Keiko, Damar’s eyes moved for the first time that day, sparing a glance at Garak’s face. “Hmm?” Garak prompted.

“The Chief’s wife. She is Asian.” Garak was sure he meant it as a question even though it didn’t much sound like one.

“Ah, yes, I suppose she is. Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to talk about your Asian friend right now.”

“I wasn’t going to, anyway,” Damar answered plainly and relented himself to being washed. He’d nearly drifted off, soothed by the heat and the smell of whatever plants Keiko had used to make the soap. He hummed softly, letting his chest and back be laved with the tender caress of a washcloth, which he hadn’t felt in ages. He opened his eyes when Garak started to work lower, hissing in defiance when the cloth-covered hand reached his stomach. He started to thrash at the first pass of the rough material over his genital slit.

“Corat!” Garak hissed, pulling back the hand that was causing the younger man distress. He kept a firm grip on the back of Damar’s neck, holding tightly to the tough, thick scales there.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Damar begged, the edges of the tub in his white-knuckled grip.

“I meant nothing by it,” Garak explained. “I’m merely trying to get you clean.”

“Not there,” Damar hissed, trying to twist out of Garak’s grip, sloshing more water out of the tub.

With a heavy sigh, Garak released his charge, and leaned back to take off the shirt he’d rolled up to the elbow. It was soaked anyway, and to continue to wear it would become uncomfortable, perhaps even risk developing a cold in the chill to come. “If you would, please,” Garak said, holding out the cloth. Damar stared at the cloth, the scales of his neck rippling in fear, anger, his distaste for the request obvious. “Corat, my dear, surely you took a hygiene class in primary school. You should be aware that if you don’t properly clean yourself _there_ , it could lead to a foul smelling infection that, if left uncleaned and untreated, can kill you.”

“Maybe it should!” Damar snapped, wrapping his arms around his knees and making himself as small as possible. Garak gave an almost-fond sigh and started again at Damar’s shoulders.

“What did they do to you?” Garak asked. “Yesterday you said to call you kratprUt in your distress. Did they,” he paused his words but not his hands, “rape you?”

“Worse,” Damar whispered, his scales rippling. He shrugged his shoulders in an effort to get Garak’s hands off of him.

“Ah, if you would be so kind as to elaborate?” Garak asked, wringing out the cloth to lay it over the edge of the tub.

“They cut if off, Garak,” Damar hissed with a warning flash of his teeth.

The admission took Garak by surprise, leading him to gape for a few seconds before recovering and putting on an almost-professional face. “I-“ he started, reaching his hands out to Damar, stopping just short of touching him. “My dear, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but if they mutilated you like that, you most certainly need to wash there. With any sort of trauma, the likelihood of infection increases by two-hundred percent.”  
“I hope it kills me,” Damar spat. “It’s what I deserve for not being faithful to my wife.”

“Oh, my dear,” Garak lamented, letting his hands come to rest on the other. One hand lay on the thick scales of his upper back, the other resting in the bend of Damar’s arm. “You have suffered, haven’t you,” he said more to himself more than Damar. The younger man started to shiver, just looking at Garak with a pleading stare, fingers still clenched around the edge of the tub. “At the hospital,” he started, turning to grab a towel to wrap Damar in, “were you- ah?” Garak blinked, looking down to the hands on his biceps that prevented him from turning away from Damar, who seemed just as confused as he was.

“What, uh, what are you doing?” Damar asked, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“Just grabbing a towel, I assure you,” came the answer as Garak carefully, slowly lifted the large, black cloth. Damar took his hands back with a nod, barely resisting the urge to hide his hands again, curling them up by the impressions on his upper chest instead.

Damar let himself be dried off and sat, nude, on Garak’s bed. A few dozen questions passed behind Garak’s eyes, but he merely started to search for something that Damar could wear. “Ah!” he said excitedly buried elbow deep in a desk drawer. He held up an old night gown from his teenage years, a simple, soft number with slits along the neck down to the shoulder. Damar raised a brow ridge and lowered his chin to his chest. “It’s all I have that is clean and will fit you. Unless,” he started, giving a playful smile as he gathered the gown in both hands, readying it to slip onto the other, “you’d rather sleep in the nude, that is.”

Damar made a little fearful noise and held his hands up, curled into fists to hide his nails. He stared at Garak until the older man slipped the gown over his arms. He stood when it pooled around him on the bed and quickly smoothed it out, wrapping his fingers in the pleats, as the sleeves weren’t long enough to cover his hands.

“Were you weighed at the hospital, dear?” Garak asked, moving around his projects on his work desk in what was starting to look like a futile attempt to find his hairbrush.

“Sixty-four kilograms,” Damar answered. As soon as Garak had found his brush, it slipped from his hands. He stared at the other, who shifted from foot to foot nervously.

“Ah, my dear,” Garak stuttered through, grabbing his brush and straightening quickly. “A healthy adult male should weigh between seventy-five and ninety kilograms.”

“I’m not exactly a male anymore, am I?” Damar snapped, turning to head back to his usual spot against the wall, leaving Garak to fight back a sigh.

“Even if you did decide to reorient your hormones and become female, you would still be underweight,” Garak said, a hint of irritation worming its way into his voice. He tossed the brush back down in the scraps and tools, and sat down on his bed, not bothering with a shirt. He ran his hands over his face, digging his nails into his ocular ridges below his eyes. His pants were wet in spots, and his head was throbbing. He’d intended to brush Damar’s hair and set and bandage his smallest finger, but he suddenly found himself exhausted, watching through his fingers as Damar shifted around until he had the gown covering everything except his face and the tips of his toes. Garak carefully lay back, not bothering to remove his pants, and threw an arm over his face.

He fell asleep quickly.

He woke several hours later to the sounds of vomiting. He sighed at a particularly loud retch, blaming himself for the relapse in Damar’s ability to eat, his recovery overall. _Cardassians are resilient creatures, Elim, but even we have our limits._ He sat up once Damar settled back into his favorite spot.

“Sorry,” Damar rasped, throat raw. Garak only shook his head, not knowing if the other saw or not, and stood. He grabbed the untouched blanket from the bed he’d prepared for Damar, and filled the tin cup with water. Garak sat, his back against the wall next to Damar, and held out the mug of water. Damar tipped back its contents and sat it aside, making a confused noise when Garak draped the blanket over both of them.

“I can’t sleep with you still awake,” Garak complained, pressing his left arm up against Damar’s right, hitching the blanket up to his chin with the other.

“Sorry,” Damar said quietly, curling in on himself, but allowing the contact.

“Just sleep,” was all Garak said.

So they did.

The next few days went relatively well. Damar ate when Garak did, listened to Garak’s stories and sometimes asked questions. He offered to help cook once, and turned over bits of some sort of meat in the large pot with the wooden spoon. He turned down the meat when it was offered to him, saying the smell left him nauseated. Damar still slept on the floor, but his clothes were cleaned and he changed between them and the nightie, and it was progress. He even brushed his own hair once, letting Garak pull it back because the idea of the older man behind him with a pair of scissors made him uncomfortable, so a small bit of ribbon would have to do the trick. Garak pointedly ignored just how much hair had come away in the brush.

Damar still generally kept to himself and kept his hands out of sight. He didn’t go out of his way to make conversation or even ask for food, but he still seemed to be getting better. He would walk around, mostly when Garak was outside, tending to his garden or raiding _taspar_ nests, but would occasionally get up to look at things around the room while Garak was at his workstation.

When the rains started in the afternoon of the eleventh day, Damar’s teeth started to clatter. He couldn’t stop shivering, even with the blanket pulled up to his chin, curled in on himself and pressed against the wall. Garak lay awake, staring at the ceiling, contemplating the low dose painkiller he’d received from the distribution center.

“Garak,” Damar whispered.

“Yes?” Garak asked, not a hint of sleep in his voice.

“I’m cold,” was the answer.

“Oh? And what can you do to combat that?” Garak asked, a teasing lilt to his voice. He tilted his head when he heard Damar moving, craned his neck to get a lock on the sounds of knees in a nightie shuffling across the cement floor, a blanket dragging close behind. Garak turned to his left, finding himself face to face with Damar.

“I’m not a child,” Damar said, his expression saying otherwise. He glared, the puffed out lower lip taking away from the attempt to intimidate.

“I never said you were,” Garak said, pulling back his blanket in offer.

After a long moment, a deep breath and a heavy sigh, Damar climbed into the bed, keeping his own blanket wrapped tightly around himself. They had to press close together to fit on the thin cot, but with one of Garak’s arms around the slender man – on top of the blankets – they found a small measure of comfort. Damar pressed his face into the lace at the neck of Garak’s nightgown and stopped shaking almost immediately, falling asleep shortly after.

After the rains stopped, Damar moved back to the floor. Garak keenly felt the absence of the smaller form pressed against his, but didn’t mention it. Garak making demands other than ‘eat’ and ‘clean yourself’ weren’t things Damar needed to deal with just yet.

When Haneri pounded on the door on the second day of the week, Damar startled, his eyes wide and frightened. He jumped over Garak’s cot and thrust himself into the closet in the cubby beyond, slamming the door behind him. Garak blinked stupidly until Haneri slammed her palm on the door again.

“Uh,” Garak started, shaking himself from his stupor and raising his voice enough for her to hear, “yes, yes, come in.”

“You alright? You ain’t going senile on me, are you?” she teased, giving him a bright smile and a new PADD. She took the old one from the desk and looked over Garak’s latest work. “Shht,” she hissed her approval, “these are nice. Any chance you’ve got enough stuff left over to make me one? How much would it run me?”

“Ah, generally something like that would go for eight strips,” Garak answered, tying the bags five at a time by a bit if string about their long straps.

“Eight,” she complained, taking the first bundle Garak held out. “Can’t you cut me a deal since I’m your friend?”

“Well, I suppose I could go seven if you’d be a dear and turn my compost before you leave.”

“Garak,” she deadpanned as she took a second tied bundle from the man.

“Hmm?” he asked. She just rolled her head along with her eyes as she always did and started loading the orders.

Garak continued to bundle the remaining bags in fives while he waited for her to return.

“How about this,” Haneri said, putting her hands on the rails to leap down the stairs. She held her hands up in front of her and continued, “Five strips and I do your shopping for you next week. I know how you hate to leave your house,” she said with a devious sneer.

Garak turned his nose up at the offer. “Six, and you turn my compost every visit for the rest of the season. Starting today.”

“Seven visits, six strips,” she said aloud, bobbing her head as she considered it. “Fine. Let’s get your work settled first, then I’ll get your latinum.”

A few minutes later, Garak found himself sorting out the fabrics and strips of Velcro, such a clever little Human invention, for his next order while Haneri produced a coin purse and counted out six strips.

“I want it next week,” she said, pointing at him as she paused on the stairs.

“Of course, Haneri,” he said, nodding politely. She grinned, gave a little snicker and hopped up the rest of the stairs, closing the door just a little too hard behind her. Garak wandered up to the top of the stairs and listened to see if she was keeping up with her end of the deal. Her cursing at the makeshift tool for turning the pile confirmed that she was, and Garak couldn’t help the quirk of his lips. He listened until her vehicle moved on and he slowly descended the stairs. “Corat,” he called, “she’s gone.”

It was a few minutes before he wandered out of the closet, and Garak regarded him pleasantly, somewhat amused that a source of great terror for him provided such comfort for Damar. The younger man was quiet for the rest of the day, taking his usual spot and eating his oatmeal and sliced spinefruit without complaint.

In the middle of the night, almost a week since Damar had shown up, barely holding himself together for the sake of the military men who escorted him to Garak’s trashed home, the younger man spoke;

“Garak,” he said quietly.

“Yes, dear?”

“I,” and there was a long pause, “want to live.”

“Me too, Corat. Me too.”


	4. One Month

“Garak,” Damar started one day, more than halfway through the second week into his stay with the older man.

“Yes?” Garak asked, not looking up from the infant’s one-piece he was working on. His commission that week had asked him to embroider the names of the infants into each plain, white piece of fabric, and he was in the middle of a particularly curvy letter, so he couldn’t afford to look away.

“I want to be able to use my hands,” Damar said, perching himself on Garak's bed, facing the tailor.

“Are you not able to?” Garak asked, raising a brow ridge.

Damar made a frustrated noise, and took his hands from his underarms slowly. He looked at his splayed palms for a moment, then made fists and shoved his hands between his thighs. “Of course I _can_ use them. I’m not an invalid,” he spat. “I just,” and he paused, closing his eyes slowly, reopening them to study Garak for a moment as he put the final stitch in the letter he was working on, “don’t like looking at them.” Garak sat the garment down and turned to Damar, removing the precision measuring tool he’d had fitted over his eye.

“We could go down to the hospital if you’d like. I’m sure they could repair your nails in a matter of a few hours,” Garak offered, one arm resting on the table, the other on his own knee.

“I don’t want to waste those kinds of resources,” Damar said, studying the dull lights that lined the handrail of the stairs.

“If it gets you back on your feet faster, I’d hardly call it a waste,” Garak reasoned.

“It would be,” Damar said defiantly. “People are still dying if those clothes you’re making are any indication. To waste resources on a purely cosmetic defect would be,” he stopped to draw in a deep breath and huff it out near-violently, “it would be selfish of me.”

“Well, your broken finger is hardly cosmetic,” Garak pointed out. Damar tried to level him with a glare, but it was weak.

“What I meant to say – to do, was to ask if you’d make me a pair of gloves,” he managed. “That way, I’d be able to work for more than a few minutes without getting sick from looking at my own hands.”

“You want to work?” Garak asked, standing up. He picked up the garment he’d been working on and took it under a different light source to look at the stitching of the child’s name.

“Yes,” Damar said. “I don’t want to face others yet, but I want to try to pull my weight around here, at least.”

Satisfied with the stitching, Garak put the garment in a box with the others he’d already completed. “My dear Corat,” Garak said, a charming smile in place as he walked the short distance to Damar. “A true Cardassian if there ever was one,” he continued, sitting next to the younger man on the cot, placing a hand on his knee. “You needn’t worry about that just yet. I will make your gloves, and I will understand if working will help you recover faster, but I want you to know something.”

“What?” Damar asked, eyes trained on the hand on his knee.

“I’m in no hurry to have you out of here, if that’s the impression you’re under.”

Damar turned an unimpressed look at Garak. “That sounds an awful lot like pity,” he warned.

“Ah, if the kind directed inward counts,” the older man said wistfully. Damar raised his eye ridges, but still looked decidedly unimpressed. “I do enjoy your company.”

Damar moved then. He stood up and shoved his hands back under his arms. He paced the area, looking at the things Garak had hung on the wall. A simple panting, torn at one end, rested behind a piece of glass. Damar recognized the signature.

“I killed her,” he said.

“My, you’re feeling talkative today,” Garak noted, standing up as well. He steeled himself for the coming conversation, folding his hands on his stomach.

“I killed her,” Damar repeated.

“I know,” Garak said, moving to stand next to Damar. Both men observed the painting in silence for several long minutes. The beginnings of a headache pulsed behind Garak’s eyes, but he waited.

“You loved her, I killed her, and yet you let me into your home. Twice, now.”

“I cared for her a great deal,” Garak amended.

“She would’ve been your wife,” Damar said, his eyes half-lidded.

“Perhaps she would have been,” Garak admitted with the slightest sideways head tilt. “But would-haves are not worth discussing.”

“And Mila,” Damar stared, closing his eyes entirely.

“Corat,” Garak said warily, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“She was your mother, wasn’t she?”

“She was my father’s housekeeper,” was all Garak would admit, once more folding his hands over his stomach.

“Her blood is on my hands, too,” Damar whispered, giving a slow, pained shake of his head.

“If there is one death you can wipe your conscious of, it is Mila’s. She was well aware of what she was getting herself into,” Garak stated matter-of-factly.

“What about the child?” Damar asked, taking a knee. He pressed his forehead to the wall below the painting.

“You only did what her father should have done years ago, what my father should have done.” Damar shut his eyes tighter against the chill in Garak’s voice.

“You believe that, don’t you?” Damar forced out around the growing lump in his throat. Time passed, irrelevant to the two men lost in their sorrows. Damar did not cry, though his shoulders shook as if he were. “You could kill me like this, you know,” the younger man said, making it sound as if it were an offer. “You could kill me and I wouldn’t put up a fight.”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Garak revealed, a bitter little laugh bubbling up in his throat before he could stop it as he was reminded of some eerily similar words Ziyal had spoken. “But I’m afraid I’m much too tainted by those pesky Federation ideals to shoot a man in the back these days.” Damar turned just enough, opened his eyes just enough, to see Garak, to watch him come close enough to touch. “Rest assured,” the older man said, reaching out to pat Damar’s thinning hair, “that if I kill you, you will be on your feet, armed, and you will see it coming.” Garak took a knee as well, his hand still resting in Damar’s hair. “And you will _want_ to fight me for the privilege of staying alive.”

Damar was possessed with a strange desire to kiss Garak then. Horrified at himself, he pulled away, a few strands of his hair deciding they liked Garak’s hand better than his scalp. Without another word, Damar curled up against the back wall, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

Garak sat where he was, leaning back against the wall beneath Ziyal’s painting. He let out an irritated sigh and thrust his head back against the wall hard enough for it to hurt. The brilliant pain was a welcome distraction.

After a while, Damar got up and made his bed. He didn’t sleep in it that night. Instead, he curled up in his favorite spot and wrapped his arms around himself. Garak slept on his stomach, head toward Damar, watching the younger man until they both drifted off.

Garak did wind up making Damar a simple pair of gloves a few days later. Damar gave a weak smile after putting them on. The look of relief on Damar’s features was worth more to Garak than any words of gratitude the young man could have spoken. The days between that moment and their almost-confrontation had been cold and quiet, but warmth seeped into Garak’s aching joints when Damar used his hand to get up instead of shuffling against the wall.

He spent a couple nights actually in the bed Garak had pulled down for him the first night.

The next time Garak drew a bath for Damar, the younger man bathed himself. Garak added hot water to the tub between working on his commissions.

“Did you wash everywhere?” Garak asked. Damar seized up, his neck ridges seeming to swell when he hunched his shoulders.

“I-“ Damar started, his hands working toward hiding under his arms.

“We’ve been over this,” Garak said, setting aside the fabric he was measuring.

“I know, I just- don’t- don’t-“

“Would it be easier if I left for a bit?” Garak asked, crossing his ankles.

“No, I- I won’t do it on my own,” Damar admitted.

“Do you need help?”

“I can’t- _bloom_ anymore,” he whispered harshly.

“Surely you must have some control over it,” Garak said, trying to roll up the flowing sleeves of the loose, light shirt he was wearing.

“There isn’t enough there for that, mnh, little bit of movement to work. I’d have to be aroused to open it enough to clean myself,” Damar admitted, turning his face into his knees. “They made me a woman,” he muttered, his voice sounding moist.

“Well, that’s not so bad,” Garak said softly, finally having figured out his sleeves, leaving them neatly folded and resting over his biceps. Damar snarled. “Now, look,” Garak said, raising his hands to Damar’s shoulders, “close your eyes and imagine I’m whoever you want me to be. You only have to get into it long enough to bloom, right? Just feel, tell me what you like and I’ll-“ Damar’s startled whimper at the gentle fingers hooked over his neck ridges made Garak jump and laugh.

Rather than give in to Garak’s plan, Damar laughed too. He snorted, making Garak laugh again. Their amusement at the strange situation fed into each other’s laughter, and soon they were both curled over with the force of their howling guffaw, Garak’s face pressed against Damar’s damp left neck ridge, the younger man’s fingers carded in Garak’s thick hair just for something to hold onto. A careful nip to his _kinat’hU_ had Damar drawing in a sharp breath. “Garak,” he rasped, fingers tightening against the older man’s scalp.

“Shh,” Garak ordered, “fantasize,” he breathed against Damar’s jaw just under his lower aural ridge. A lick to the tender skin there made Damar quake, tilting his head away to give better access. Barely grazing his teeth over the ridge, Damar surrendered himself to Garak’s touch, arching his back at the press of fingers in his _chula_.

“Garak,” he hissed, pushing Garak’s face further into his neck.

“Hmm,” Garak hissed out, sucking at the swelling, darkening scales. Moving a hand toward Damar’s _chuva_ , Garak gave a warm chuckle. “You’re not very good at fantasizing, are you?” he teased.

“Please,” Damar gasped, his other hand finding the edge of the tub and squeezing, “have mercy on me! I can almost- almost- Garak!” Damar screeched, spreading his legs as far as the tub would allow, rubbing his genital slit, those throbbing scales, against the two of Garak’s fingers pressed there for that purpose.

“Get to your knees, dear,” Garak ordered, his voice low and saccharine, his fingers pressing up to encourage the movement. On his knees, Damar was only thigh deep in water, and Garak pressed his fingers harder against the soft, smooth scales. “Bloom for me, darling,” he murmured, lips brushing overheated aural ridges. Garak gasped when he felt what was left of Damar’s length push his slit open, one wet, soapy finger sliding inside easily. “There we are, sweet thing,” Garak cooed, massaging the inside of Damar’s purse as he positioned himself to get a better look at what Damar was dealing with. The pink nub with a slight protrusion at the tip glistened with Damar’s natural lubricant, and the older man couldn’t resist running his thumb over it. The younger of the two keened, his hand having slipped from Garak’s hair to his neck, squeezing the hard scales. After a few passes of Garak’s thumb, Damar couldn’t help mimicking the motion with his own on the soft, sensitive underside of the flared, swollen scales of the older man’s neck. “I’ve got you, dear. I’ve got you. Just a little more,” he hissed, moving his finger in and out. Damar whimpered when Garak pulled out to dip his hand in the water. “Shh, just need to rinse,” he promised, pouring a handful of water over the lubricating slit. He almost growled when Damar arched against the ticklish caress of the water.

“Garak,” Damar pleaded.

“Do you want me to keep going?” Garak asked, running his fingers over the engorged edges of the parted slit.

“I- I don’t know,” Damar admitted with a shake of his head.

“I can stop at any time,” Garak promised, using his free hand to tilt Damar’s head back. “You’re clean, dear. We don’t need to continue if you don’t want to.”

“But it feels so good,” Damar whined, pushing against Garak’s fingers. “I didn’t think I’d ever feel- this again. _Please_ ,” he growled the last word.

“Shh, I’ll take care of you,” Garak promised, slipping a finger back inside, holding Damar still with his other arm when he started to thrash.

“Yes, yes,” Damar panted, turning his face into Garak’s neck, humping the thumb rubbing over his prick. “Just- Garak- _oh_ ,” he breathed, eyes rolling back in his head. A deep groan rumbled up from his chest while the tender nub slicked Garak’s hand with his seed, his purse squeezing the finger inside him.

“Oh, how _exquisite_ ,” Garak purred. “It appears that you can still ejaculate, my dear,” he announced.

Damar blinked away the haze of pleasure, looking down at Garak’s hand with a puzzled look.

“Oh, damn,” Damar cursed, hurriedly splashing water over his genital slit. He rubbed it down quickly before his body lost interest in the event, and shifted his hips until he closed back up. He jumped from the bath and scrambled for a towel, missing Garak bringing his thumb to his lips for a taste of his charge. Garak watched Damar scrub himself raw with the towel before turning around, a few scales that had been pried loose fluttering to the ground. “S-sorry. Damn. I’m so sorry,” he forced out, trying not to growl and pull out more of his hair.

“For what?” Garak asked, raising his brow ridges as he washed his hands, looking at the water and not Damar.

“For asking- making you do- ah, for that,” he finally settled on.

Garak clicked his tongue, reaching over the tub for the towel. “My dear, sweet, stupid Corat,” he said, unable to keep the flirtatious insults out of his speech, “I offered. You didn’t make me do a thing.”

“Yes, but I just- so undignified- on your hand, while staying here for free because I can’t even- Garak,” he complained, watching the older man start to empty the tub.

“Do you want to return the favor?” Garak asked.

“What?” the younger man managed, his neck scales flushing, suddenly filled with a hot kind of shame and a vague feeling of horror, of a falling sensation.

“Help me empty the tub, dear,” Garak said, putting on his friendliest smile.

“Right, uh, of course.”

Once he was dressed again, Damar helped empty the tub, hesitating only once at the top of the stairs. Peering out to make sure no one else was around before striding out to find Garak and see where he was dumping the water. He could feel his facial scales throbbing with shame. _And you thought he wanted that. What a freak you’ve become, Damar,_ the younger man scolded himself. Before long the tub was empty, and Damar was left with his thoughts, growing darker by the minute, while Garak hummed to himself and folded up the tub for storage.

“I’d recommend doing that at least every other week,” Garak suggested, laying back on his bed, a pleased smile on his face which was hidden under his arm.

“Uh, yeah, now that I know I can, I will. I mean, take care of it myself,” Damar answered, fumbling with his gloves. He felt a little bit of relief at having them on, turning his hands over to observe the solid color of the soft, cotton-like material.

“I don’t mind helping,” Garak offered casually.

Damar slept on the floor again that night.

In the morning, Garak made breakfast. That was unusual, as he tended to wait until the half-way point of the day to eat his first meal. He ate his food, savoring every bite, licking his thumb clean of every bit of juice and food product he touched, reveling in the memories of the previous day’s activities.

He thought of past lovers as he cleaned his plate and prepared some softer foods for Damar. A Bolian woman, he remembered; Trikia, a textiles merchant. She had been such a treat. Garak felt bad for the species of lesser constitution, the Humans, the Bajorans, Vulcans and Romulans, who could never have such a delicacy grace their tongues without getting ill. What a shame, Garak thought, that the pink and brown species would never be able to fully appreciate the shades of blue that a Bolian woman’s chest blushed when she was in the throes of passion.

And few would ever know the joy of an older Romulan man unraveling under their touch. Garak had been young then, and struggling to hold down the hips of someone who was more than a hundred years his elder, someone who was just as densely muscled as he had been, was a heady, intoxicating experience. Rough hands in his hair, forcing him to take more had had him blooming in his pants like a teenager.

After preparing a small fruit salad, Garak sucked the knife clean and licked his lips after, wondering how Haneri would take to being crushed against the wall and fondled until she was aroused enough for him to slip right in. He allowed himself a little laugh at the ridiculous notion, knowing he’d never do such a thing, even if he were to pursue her. But the idea was undeniably exciting, and he found himself terribly aroused, imagining Haneri with thick, supple thighs because it had been so long, _far too long_ , since he’d had a partner with thighs that gave to a rough grip.

Sparing a glance at a sleeping Damar, one leg outstretched and showing far more than was decent of an adult man, Garak decided to make more food. He thought to try to get some protein in the young man and shook his head at the unintended double entendre his throbbing lower scales provided him with. He briefly wondered what Damar would think if he woke then, finding Garak’s larger scales flushed a dark gray with his amorous ponderings. Surely the younger man knew what lascivious creatures Cardassians were, in the thick of it himself even with the recent bodily trauma he’d been victim to. Why, the hot flashes of desire at any soft flesh or scales exposed to any greedy eye wouldn’t even begin to simmer down until he was much older than Garak.

He made oats in a meat broth, stirring them every minute or two as they bubbled lazily. He thought of Julian then, but thoughts of his _dear doctor_ often stymied his arousal in recent months. It was true that, when he first laid eyes on the pretty young thing, he’d wanted little more than to feel that lean body pressed against his. He’d grown to desire the curious sensation of lightly furred skin against his chest during his dealings with the Romulans, and the young Human was sure to have just enough body hair to tease his more sensitive scales. He couldn’t wait to hear the lithe little thing cry out, abandoning his nervousness to feeling, surely more eloquent in his pleasure than the way he stuttered through their first greeting.

Then he’d developed feelings.

But that was irrelevant, Garak told himself, turning the oats over once more, and what Julian didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. He’d bear the rot as long as he could, and if it killed him, he would take it to his grave so it never infected the dear doctor.

When the oats were finished, a good half an hour on the heat so the absorbent flakes swelled up with as much broth as they possibly could, Garak spooned a bit into a small bowl. He took the bowl and the plate, and a long, thin piece of flatbread to stick in the oats, and moved toward Damar. He couldn’t help but blink stupidly and stare when he found Damar wide awake and staring at him.

“Good morning,” Garak said with fake cheer, putting the bowl and plate in front of Damar. He watched the other draw his leg up and cover it with the nightie, hiding his hands under himself.

“You’re white,” he noted.

“Am I?” Garak asked. “Well, I just ate, so my color should return soon,” he spoke pleasantly, standing and folding his hands together.

“Sorry,” Demar muttered, reaching out for the plate. He pulled it closer, but made no move to eat anything from it.

“Uh, for?” Garak inquired, cocking his head.

“Yesterday,” Damar bit out, averting his eyes.

“My dear, there’s nothing wrong with a little pleasure,” Garak assured him. The older man took the blanket from his own bed and folded it while he talked; “Really, you should know that. Even the most stately of gentlemen crave every now and again, and one should always take care of it before it becomes a distraction.” After placing the folded blanket over the pillow, he sat at the end of the bed, watching Damar pick at the fruit, careful not to stain his gloves.

“I was married,” Damar said as if he meant to continue, but the words hung in the air.

“And unfortunately, she passed on. But your physical needs will not. Not for many, many years,” Garak explained, earning himself a glare from Damar.

“Needs,” the younger answered with a scoff. “My only need now is to get strong enough to work again.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Garak said, his voice soft, barely above a whisper.

“It’s not like I could provide a new woman with children.”

“We established that you can still ejaculate,” Garak said with a hopeful inflection. Damar scoffed again and gave an aborted half-roll of his eyes. “Even if you couldn’t, what’s wrong with enjoying a pleasant sensation?”

“Maybe it’s because you’re the one who did it,” Damar hissed. Garak’s brow ridges raised dramatically, but he kept his pleasant smile in place, kept his hands folded in his lap. “You’ve never liked me. So why?” From hissing straight to a tiny voice, scared and pitched a fair bit higher than his usual aural ridge-pleasing rumble, Damar couldn’t keep eye-contact for more than a few seconds at a time.

When Garak pushed himself from the bed to sit on the floor, Damar curled in on himself a bit more. The younger man watched Garak warily, though his gaze was fixated on the man’s barely covered shoulder rather than his eyes. “My dear, whatever gave you that idea?”

“Pick any reason,” Damar hissed.

“Hmm, alright,” Garak said, leaning back against the bed, bringing his knees up just a bit so he could stretch his arms out and rest his wrists over them. “How about the fact that you became the face of the resistance? That you inspired Cardassia to resist occupation, convinced all of her citizens to stand tall and proud, regardless of the consequences? How about that, if it weren’t for you, we never would have been able to return home?”

“Home,” Damar spat, seeming vaguely reminiscent of a Klingon in that moment. “My wife and children are dead. You’re the only Cardassian I know still alive. Our beautiful architecture has been reduced to rubble, it’s cold and filthy and _you_ ,” Damar hissed, “all they have you do is sew. You’re living in squalor, taking care of the man who ruins every single chance you have at happiness.”

 _Moments of great passion ruin great men, Elim. Have patience,_ Tain’s ancient advice reminded Garak. He took a deep breath. And another. He closed his eyes and ran his tongue along the back of his teeth to keep himself from saying anything he’d regret. “Not every chance,” he said eventually. When Damar made a questioning noise, Garak stood. “You haven’t taken every chance at a joyful life for me just yet,” he said as he felt along the side of the mattress between it and its box for the disruptor he kept hidden there. “Not yet, anyway,” he said, taking it out and checking its battery level. When he turned around, Damar’s eyes were wide with fear, his face nearly white, save for the dark gray of his healing scars where new scales looked to be trying to grow. Garak made the few short strides it took to reach Damar, holding the weapon delicately, as if displaying it while still holding it to fire. “You could ruin my last chance, if you wanted to,” he said, taking a knee. “You could be gracious and make it swift,” he added, placing the disruptor at Damar’s feet, “instead of making me watch you waste away to nothing.”

Damar gaped for a long moment. Eventually, he reached out for the disruptor, watching to see if Garak would snatch it away. When the older man made no move to stop him, Damar brought it close to his face to check the battery. He licked his lips as he turned the device over in his gloved hands, looking at the device like it might tell him something of great importance.

“You know, I-“ he started, glancing over at Garak to find him still on one knee, his eyes blazing with anger and shining with hurt, “some days I wonder if I really have died.” Garak blinked at the admission, the firm line his mouth had been set in relaxing a bit. “I think that maybe this is the afterlife.

“April told me about the Human religion her family follows. They have a concept they call ‘Hell.’ It’s a place where the worst people go to suffer for,” he paused to swallow, “for however long it takes for them to pay for the terrible things they did in their lives, with specific punishments for each crime committed.

“I used to think the idea of an afterlife was a foolish one, and yet,” Damar paused yet again to take a deep breath and force back the tears that threatened to escape, to lick his lips to prove to himself that his tongue wasn’t as swollen as it felt, “the Vorta trimmed my flower, which seems an apt punishment for betraying my wife. The Jem’Hadar picked off my scales one by one with their fingers, which makes sense with how I betrayed Our Mother in the first place. No Cardassian worth his scales would have,” and he didn’t finish his thought, merely shaking his head. He brought the disruptor up to rub its back against his _chufa_ , pressing his forehead to its sleek body. “What they did to April was a punishment for my xenophobia in my youth. I was starved and dehydrated, a punishment for my overindulgence.”

Both men were silent for a long time; Garak not knowing what to say, Damar too choked up to speak. Everything but a vague sadness had fled Garak’s expression, but he didn’t move.

“I wonder if- if you’re dead too, and you’re here to suffer with me. Or, maybe, you’re an effigy I’ve conjured up in my own mind, someone I’ve subconsciously deemed worthy of tormenting me. I keep wondering when Dukat or Ziyal,” he squeaked, forcing out the words over his sobs, “will come through that door, and what they will do to me. To us.

“I want to pull this trigger, I really do. I want to know if I’m dead or not, and I want to know what the punishment is for seeking an easy way out of my penance. But I-“ he had to pant for a few moments to catch his breath before he could continue, “if this is real, if you’re real, I do want to live and heal. As much as I’m capable of. I know I don’t deserve to love again, and I’ll never get to raise another child, but I- I can help Cardassia rebuild, even if only as a day laborer. I could help you rebuild your home.

“I know I’ll never be able to make up what I’ve done to you, but I can learn to cook and clean, and honor Mila’s memory for you, and your wife when you take one, and your children.”

“Oh, my dear,” Garak breathed, moving closer. His hands shook as he reached out for the trembling younger man, regret etched in every scale on his face. He slowly pried the disruptor from the gloved grip, kicking himself for having such a reaction that he’d reduced Damar to baring his soul like that. Of all the tearful confessions he’d ever wrenched from any victim, this was surely the most heartfelt. He pushed the disruptor under his cot and drew Damar into his arms, repeating, “Oh, my dear.”

Finally, Damar cried, hiding his tears in Garak’s throat, pressing into the older man as much as his curled position with his hands under his arms would allow. Garak shushed and soothed, petting what remained of Damar’s long hair, holding him close with a hand at the back of one bony shoulder.

After Damar fell asleep, Garak put him to bed in his own bed, which he figured he wouldn’t be needing for a while, and covered the younger man with his favorite blanket. He knelt at the head of the bed and stroked Damar’s hair for several long minutes, occasionally passing the backs of his fingers over the softest part of Damar’s cheek. “I do care for you,” he said before standing.

Unable to focus on his work, he tidied up the living space and hid the disruptor somewhere where it would be much more difficult for either of them to reach if the mood struck.

Garak took a trip into town, needing to get away from the ghosts in his home. He ran into Haneri while out, and she forced him to try a human drink that was becoming fairly popular on Cardassia; root beer. He indulged her, even though he was well aware of what it tasted like. She joined him for his shopping, and told him what she’d heard of the happenings in Nicez.

Another one of the rogue Jem’Hadar ships had been found, people rescued. Nothing he didn’t already know. Three Cardassains and two humans were found alive. The bodies of two Cardassians, four humans, and one Bolian were recovered. That was new, and Garak had to take a deep breath at the mention of the recovered bodies, spectres still hot on his heels, apparently. One of them was April and, as the panic edged in, he couldn’t help but imagine that one of them was Trikia.

After he excused himself from Haneri’s company, he found it rather silly that he’d thought his one-time Bolian lover was one of the captives. She wasn’t affiliated with Starfleet in any way. He had a good laugh about it on his way home, and it took on a bit of a psychotic tinge as he put away his purchases. Not wanting to wake Damar, he weeded his garden until the feeling passed.

When he came back inside, he found Damar by the toilet with a cup of water and the curtain pulled back.

“Oh, hello,” he greeted casually. “May I ask what you are doing?”

“Trying to keep my food down,” Damar answered, gesturing to the empty bowl and plate on the desk against the wall. “I want to get better,” he whisper-hissed.

“By all means,” Garak said, and set to work on finishing that week’s commissions.

Damar tried to elaborate more when he did speak over the following days, and he took an interest in watching Garak cook. He still hid in the closet when Haneri stopped by, but at least, to Garak’s relief, he started sleeping in his own bed more often than he slept on the floor.

He _asked_ if he could lay with Garak during the rains, and put his blanket over both of them. A little more than a three week, thirty-six day Cardassian month into his stay with Garak, listening to the rain with the smooth side of his forehead resting on Garak’s collarbone impressions, lips brushing the lace neck of the gown the older man preferred, Damar said something that gave them both hope;

“I’m ready to talk.”


	5. One Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic descriptions of torture and sexual violence ahead. I give my sincerest apologies to anyone named, or who knows an, April.

Garak had always thought himself someone capable of dissociation in all aspects of his life. He’d been proven wrong a few times, Odo and Julian coming to mind immediately. But the tortures Damar described April having been put through would’ve made Tain lose his lunch.

Tain, who had peered over Garak’s shoulder during his first few interrogations with great glee. Tain, who pushed Garak into more and more cruel methods of interrogation. _Don’t twist the blade, Elim. That’ll kill him. Move it side to side slowly. You have wiggle room of about seven centimeters if you move from left to right and back again. You can’t move it up and down or you’ll puncture the lung or the intestine. Ah yes, there’s a good boy._ Garak drew in a breath while Damar took a break from his story to dry heave over the toilet. _That_ Tain would have been in Damar’s position upon hearing this. _Now the difference between simple flesh and scales, Elim, it’s a beautiful one. The lack of scales opens up so many more opportunities, so many more paths to the truth. Here, you take a needle- Yes, Elim, I know it’s a primitive sewing tool. You’d do well to learn to use one. Now, the first layer of simple flesh is dead, and if you take a needle, carefully, just under it- No, it actually doesn’t cause very much pain, but you don’t need to cause much pain to be a good interrogator. If you wiggle it just right, let them see what it is doing just below the dead surface, the fear in their eyes will be exquisite._ That Tain would’ve told Damar to stop his descriptions of what he’d been forced to watch happen to April.

Garak had to get up from where they’d been cuddling – he’d fully intended to hold Damar all the way through his tale, but he needed a drink. He wished he had something a bit stronger than water. After he was hydrated enough to open and close his mouth without it sticking, he brought Damar a glass of water.

“Thank you,” the younger man wheezed, taking the cup. “Sorry,” he said, leaning with one arm on the seat. He dropped his head to his forearm and just tried to breathe.

“Take your time,” Garak said, a little surprised at how deep and low his voice was, and placed his hand on Damar’s shoulder.

Back in bed, both blankets wrapped tightly around them, Damar’s gloved hands full of the soft fabric of Garak’s gown and Garak’s arms around him, he continued.

The Vorta in charge of the rogue Jem’Hadar had been fascinated by interspecies sexuality. One of the Humans had dropped simply from too much forced sex with the Bolian, and the Vorta’s only reaction had been, “interesting.” After the Bolian managed to kill herself, the Cardassians had been paired with Humans, and he’d been forced to have sex with April, some sort of hormone used to stimulate them both. She didn’t blame him, Damar explained, she took his face in her hands and told him it wasn’t his fault, even as tears poured down her cheeks. She didn’t shy away from him after the Vorta and the Jem’Hadar left them alone. Instead, she curled up with him, told him about Earth, about her family. She provided comfort, prompted him to tell her about Cardassia.

Then, the Vorta figured out how to break him.

April had been vivisected, mid-coitus. That was exactly how Damar put it, and Garak closed his eyes and patted the thin hair, encouraging the dissociation. He’d have to, to survive the memory. Deal with it bit by bit. Moved and parted everything so they could see what was happening, he’d said.

Afterward, they’d killed her in front of him, keeping parts of her for display. He wouldn’t say which parts, and Garak was perfectly fine with not knowing, not that he couldn’t make an educated guess.

Before long, the Vorta decided he wanted another trophy. Damar let Garak infer his meaning.

“Oh, my dear,” was all Garak could say, crushing the smaller body to his.

“Sorry,” Damar muttered, tugging on Garak’s gown. “I- I feel a little better now, now that I’m not the only one who knows. She was…” he trailed off, turning his cheek into the fabric so it would absorb his tears. “She was so strong.” A long silence followed, and Garak thought Damar had fallen asleep, his breath soft on his _chula_. “I need to live. For her,” he whispered.

“You will,” Garak promised.

The next day Garak wrote Julian, asking if he’d like to come visit and see his home.

After Haneri’s next visit, Garak decided he’d fish Damar out of the closet rather than wait for him. He could feel his heart thudding as he approached the closet, memories of strong fingers on his aural ridge making his ear ache. His hand on the slider looked different from Tain’s, and that was a relief. He was paler than his father, his hands slimmer. He wrenched open the door to Damar’s soft gasp.

“She’s gone,” Garak said, and knelt. He gave a soft smile, inching forward into the enclosed space.

“Sorry,” Damar said, scooting forward toward Garak.

“Is that your favorite word, dear?” Garak asked, reaching out a hand to run his fingers along Damar’s aural ridges before gently cupping his jaw. His fingers trembled a little, but he kept smiling, Damar’s confused stare a wonderful distraction.

“Are you OK?” Damar asked, getting to his knees. He leaned against Garak, who was half in the door.

“Mm,” was the older man’s only response, other than the fingers sliding into his hair.

“Garak,” Damar said, a questioning lilt to his voice.

“Let’s,” Garak started, tilting his head forward to gently bump his forehead against Damar’s, “let’s get out of the closet, alright?”

“Yeah,” Damar agreed, and let Garak lead him out of the small space. When Garak heaved a relieved sigh, the younger man put the pieces together. “You don’t like the closet, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” Garak answered.

“Why?” Damar asked, taking a hold of Garak’s sleeve, preventing him from starting his new project.

“I don’t get along well with small places, dear.”

Julian’s answer was unusually prompt, excited to come see Garak’s home. Ezri was more than happy to come along and see the friend that Garak had mentioned might need her help. Ecstatic, Garak bought a few yards of a nice leather.  
“We’re going to have a couple of visitors in a little less than a month,” Garak announced when he returned home. He tossed aside the dust-mask middle-of-the-week travel required him to wear. He splayed out the new fabric, putting aside his current commission for a moment.

“Shulien?” Damar asked, looking up from the oats and meat bits he was working on in the wok.

Garak’s brow scales pinched, and he put the fabric pencil down. He understood the name, despite the mispronunciation. “Yes. Have I mentioned him before?”

“No, but you talk to him in your sleep,” Damar said, giving a slight smirk.

“Oh,” Garak said, eyes widening with his surprise. “How mortifying,” he added with fake cheer.

“Who is the other one?”

“Ah,” Garak said, turning back to his project, hoping his face wasn’t as flushed as it felt, “Julian’s girlfriend.”

Damar made a non-committal noise before turning his attention back to their meal. After a while, Garak figured the younger man no longer had a desire to discuss the future guests and turned his attention back to his new project. “Just warn me first,” Damar said out of the blue, “so I don’t hide in the closet like I do when that Haneri girl tries to break the door down.”

Garak gave an almost-fond little scoff. “Of course.”

Finding a scale had been an adventure. Stall after stall and store after store sent him elsewhere in search of an elusive device with which to measure one’s weight. He supposed there should have been a spare tricorder laying around, but they were going for bricks rather than bars, and no amount of haggling or bargaining would get the price below a brick, so he went back to searching for a scale. A fish market, of all the places, had a spare scale that they were willing to part with for ten bars of latinum. An outburst of, “I may as well just go buy a tricorder at that cost!” brought the price down to six bars and five strips fairly quickly. It was a heavy-duty scale, and would play double-duty in the future, Garak reckoned, when the economy got back on its feet and people had the spare cash to buy the nice clothes he’d make. When he needed to measure the weight of certain materials and objects.

When Damar stepped on the scale, Garak was elated to find that the young man had gained two kilograms in his stay with him. Damar gave a hesitant smile, looking between the weight display and Garak, and the older man nodded, beaming. He pulled Damar into a one-armed hug, and the younger man made a mock-indignant expression.

Garak was pleased to find that he hadn’t dropped below seventy-seven kilograms, himself. He was satisfied with the seventy-nine he read, but made a silent promise to himself and Damar that he would eat more.

During the next rain, Garak pulled back the blankets before Damar could even ask.

“Does it bother you that we sleep together when it rains?” Damar asked, leaning up on his elbow. The gown wasn’t too big for him anymore, hanging on his lithe body exactly the way it was supposed to. Garak gave Damar a once-over as he pretended to consider the question, vaguely wishing he’d looked as ravishing when he was small enough for the garment. The dark gloves coupled with the light cream sleepwear made him look almost elegant.

“Of course not,” Garak answered, fighting the urge to tug at the neckline of the simple, knee-length tunic he wore to bed that night.

“Good,” Damar said, finally laying down, “because you’re always warm.” He shuffled around until his face was in the provocative dip at the neck of the other man’s tunic, his nose nudging Garak’s _chula_.

Garak tried not to sigh at the pleasantly intimate contact, instead saying, “I’m not warm, you’re just cold.” He took one of Damar’s hands in his, one of the gloved appendages that usually remained curled up by the younger man’s chest, and brought it to his hip. When Damar took the hint and huddled closer, Garak wrapped his arms around him and said, “we’ve got to get you eating more.”

Damar huffed out a warm breath against Garak’s collar.

Haneri brought a request from a friend for Garak in addition to his work order on her next visit. He was offered ten strips for another bag like the one he made her only with a different color for the accents, and he wasn’t about to argue with that. He was never more grateful that he was allowed to keep the material left over when he completed an order than when civilian requests started coming in. He barely had time to work on his personal project, but he wanted it ready by the time Damar had to face the young counselor, so he made the time.

Damar didn’t want to let Garak leave when he was getting ready to meet the younger couple at the station, since he would be gone for several hours, but he wasn’t about to mention it. Garak could sense it, unable to stop smiling.

“Corat,” he said, lightly scolding, “I’ll only be gone for a little over four hours. We’re taking a shuttle back as far as the line goes, so it may not even be that long.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Damar hissed, turning his head away and his nose up, offended that he was called out.

“My dear,” Garak said with a slight amused shake of his head. He checked the pocket of his vest one last time for the sheet of information he’d need and walked over to Damar, who stood at the base of the stairs. “I’ll be back soon,” he said softly, reaching up to guide the younger man’s head back down to look at him.

“Yeah,” Damar said, sounding slightly out of breath.

As they stared each other down, Garak knew that the dynamic of their relationship had changed. It wasn’t quite love, but they’d found a home in each other. Comfort of a sort, a welcome reprieve from unbearable reality. Home wasn’t the musty basement, it was Garak, and home was leaving. He understood Damar’s trepidation. He’d felt the same way when he’d parted with Julian that last time. Garak lifted his chin and kissed the corner of Damar’s mouth, feeling the muscles there go slack in surprise.

“Eat something while I’m gone,” Garak said as he ascended the stairs.

“Yeah,” was all Damar could say.

To say that Garak was relieved when he got home would be an understatement. As excited as he was to reunite with the doctor and the counselor, he couldn’t help but worry about Damar the entire time. His concern even kept him from a smart comeback when Julian expressed his disbelief at the rubble being his home.

“Garak,” Julian said, trying to draw the older man’s attention.

“It’s down the stairs, dear,” and there was his smart comeback. Ezri chuckled under her breath and Julian rolled his eyes to cover the sheepish look that threatened to consume his face. “Corat,” he announced upon opening the door, “we’re here.”

“Corat?” Julian asked, his confusion endearing. “Damar!” he marveled when the three of them reached the bottom of the stairs, Ezri having closed the door behind her.

“Hello,” he said, standing from Garak’s bed. He clenched his gloved fists at his sides, trying not to look like he was all angles.

Ezri put her hand on Garak’s hip so he would move to the side, since Julian was standing pressed against the railing. “Ah, my apologies,” he said, stepping to the side. Making her way between the men, she gave Damar a friendly smile.

“Hello, Corat,” she greeted, a brief look of realization crossing her features before deciding that what Garak called the uneasy man would be a better option than what Julian had called him. “I’m Ezri Dax. Nice to officially meet you,” she offered, giving a polite half-bow, half-nod.

Gray fled Damar’s face. His eyes widened and his nostrils flared. He gaped for nearly a minute before Garak decided to move closer.

“Dear?” he asked, reaching out to gently brace Damar’s elbow. “Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a changeling.”

Damar wrenched his arm from Garak’s grip and vaulted over the cot. All three of the basement’s occupants jumped in surprise when Damar slammed the closet door shut behind him. They could hear his harsh breathing from the steps.

“Was it something I said?” Ezri asked, her brow pinched.

“Ah, no,” Garak said, sounding unsure. “No, no, dear,” he found his proper voice again, “he just has a tendency to panic when we have company. Make yourselves at home while I get him.”

Julian caught Garak’s arm as he made his way past toward the closet.

“Garak,” he said in that disbelieving, almost conspiratorial tone he often took with the Cardassian. “You’re going in _there_ to get him?”

“Julian,” Ezri scolded, “he can make his own decisions in that regard. If he feels comfortable going into a small space, that’s a good thing.”

“I will be fine,” he assured them both. “But,” he said, holding up one finger, turning his head down at Julian, “I would appreciate someone coming to check on me if I’m not out in fifteen minutes,” he placated. Julian let him go and Ezri folded her arms behind her back with a small smile.

“Ohh,” Garak sighed out when he realized Damar had moved all the way to the back of the closet. It was only one meter deep, but that was the problem. “Corat,” he said softly.

“No,” the younger man hissed out, his heavy breathing almost drowning out the word.

“Corat, dear,” Garak said. He took a deep breath of the cool air outside and shut the door behind him. “My dearest,” he whispered, dropping to his knees. He reached out for Damar in the dark, finding a shoulder for a second before the younger man flinched away.

“I can’t,” Damar hissed, huffing.

Garak felt around until he was sitting behind Damar, hands grasping the other’s biceps from behind. Damar was facing the back wall, and that made it easier to slide in behind him, bracketing him with his legs. He wrapped his arms around the smaller man and pulled him back against his chest.

“Lift your head, dear,” Garak ordered, moving his head to the side to make room for Damar’s. Still huffing, hissing through his teeth, Damar did as told. His hissing turned into gasping and he trembled violently. “If it’s too much, I can have them in our home one at a time,” he suggested.

“It’s not- that,” Damar hissed, taking his fingers from his underarms to grab Garak’s wrists in a bruising grip. He didn’t seem intent on moving them, just holding them in place, so Garak didn’t try to disentangle himself from the other. When he opened his mouth to ask what the matter was, Damar interrupted, “She- she’s a different color, but she- looks like- her hair, her size- her _smile_ ,” Damar forced out between huffs. “Her uniform,” Damar added. "I know her. I've- I've met her before. I know she's not, but-" He shuddered violently, the side of his head cracking against Garak’s jaw. “Sorry!” he hissed.

Garak had to swallow a mouthful of blood before he could respond, “it’s alright,” fighting back a pained grimace he knew Damar would feel. He pressed his face into the back of Damar’s left shoulder ridges, holding the man tightly to his chest. “I’m alright. We’re going to be alright. I’ll just reintroduce you to Miss Dax, and we’ll be alright. Yes, perfectly alright.” Upon realizing he was rambling and rocking slightly with Damar, he straightened his back. He rubbed gentle circles on the other’s chest and belly, hoping to soothe him enough that they could leave.

For five excruciating minutes, the only sound was Damar’s harsh breathing, but eventually he muttered, “yes.”

“Yes?” Garak asked, unable to keep the hopeful note from his voice.

“Yes,” Damar repeated, pulling at Garak’s wrists, actually attempting to get him to remove his hands that time.

Garak’s eyes bugged and his mouth made a little ‘o’ with his relief as they emerged from the small space. Damar held his hands in fists at his sides as he tried to keep his head level to greet Ezri.

“Not feelin’ too good, huh?” she asked, keeping her voice quiet.

“Sorry,” Damar forced out.

“It’s alright,” she soothed as Julian had a quiet conversation with Garak, inquiring about his split lip. “If it’s too noisy for you out here, I could sit with you in the closet,” she offered, trying not to let herself be distracted by Julian fussing over Garak with a tricorder.

“You’d do that for me?” Damar asked, floored.

“Of course! We can talk wherever you’re most comfortable.” She plastered on a bright, toothy smile, which apparently resembled April’s a little less because Damar gave an awkward, careful smile in return. “Guys,” she announced, “we’re going in the closet.”

“Alright,” Julian answered, Garak’s jaw firmly in his grip even though the Cardassian had long relented to being treated. “Don’t try anything with my girlfriend, Damar,” Julian warned playfully.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Damar said, “but I think I will now.”

Ezri gave a faux-exasperated huff and herded Damar back into the closet.

“What’re you smiling about?” Julian asked, taking the dermal regenerator to the inside of Garak’s lip.

His words a bit slurred, Julian still understood, “that’s the first joke he’s made since he’s been here.”

A few hours later, Julian and Garak had about talked themselves to exhaustion.

Julian had personally handed over his ninety-day care package, explaining each item as Garak took them out to examine them. There was a tin of cocoa, more rosewater, a few plastic balls of tea – which were from Keiko – and more Candy from Ezri. Julian had included a PADD with a selection of essays on the ethics of Federation assistance on Cardassia, and a special treat – a few of Shakespeare’s sonnets that Julian had painstakingly translated into Kardasi himself, and he wanted a critique on. Along with the tea balls, reusable no less, Keiko had sent a drawing of Molly’s. A picture that was supposed to be four little girls holding hands; a Human, a Klingon, a Bajoran and a Cardassian. It was clear that, since the incident with Rugal, Keiko had been curious about him, always encouraging Miles to be nice to him. It was clear that she’d gotten through to him when he pulled out the clear little baggie that was labeled “from O’Brien.” It was filled with one or two pieces from various games that Garak recognized. A very thoughtful gift indeed.

“There you are!” Julian said, jumping to his feet when Ezri and Damar emerged from the closet. Both of them were snickering, even as Julian put his arm around her shoulder and bent to kiss her cheek. “I was starting to think you’d found Narnia.” Damar didn’t understand the reference and raised a brow ridge. Garak offered to explain once they’d left. “So!” Julian said excitedly, taking his medical tricorder from his belt. “Are you ready for a check-up mister Damar?”

“Please,” Damar said, bobbing his head slightly, “call me Corat.”

“A look, mister Corat?”

Julian found that Damar’s hair had been falling out from a lack of an important nutrient in Cardassian food that his diet had been severely lacking for quite some time. He suggested Garak take a supplement too, for his joints, and agreed to inform the distribution center of Garak’s needs, keeping Damar off the radar. The doctor also advised that Garak stop consuming so much bread, lest his forgetfulness get worse. The glare that earned had both Julian and Damar snickering, Ezri hiding a giggle behind her hand. Julian admitted, on a bit of a somber note, that he was worried about Damar’s weight. But, he was also certain that eating regularly and getting a bit more exercise would bring him back to his former fitness in no time. The black spots along his forehead were indeed budding new scales. He wouldn’t allow the doctor a look at his hands, but his tricorder allowed him an assessment of the damage. Surprisingly, Julian wasn’t worried about the broken finger. If it wasn’t causing him any pain, he said, it wasn’t something he had to worry about yet, since the bone wasn’t fusing and healing crooked.

The couple agreed to let Garak show them around the next day, early in the morning. But after that, they had other business to attend to before they headed home. 

Damar found out that Ezri was the hugging type, and that Julian was the arm-grabbing sort when they bid their farewells. He was a bit surprised by how much he liked their physicality. Ezri made him promise to keep in touch.

Damar didn’t miss the way Garak looked longingly after Julian, and was a bit surprised at his tenderness with the object of the man’s affection, hugging her and ruffling her hair. He supposed Garak could have feigned affection for Dukat if he’d had to, but it didn’t seem forced. He didn’t sense any hidden resentment.

“How are you feeling?” Garak asked once the young couple had left.

“Tired,” Damar answered honestly.

“Hmm,” Garak hummed thoughtfully. “Too tired for a gift?”

“A gift?” Garak only hummed a positive. “I- suppose not,” he said, sounding confused.

He hadn’t been able to wrap it, but he didn’t think Damar would care much for the suspense. Garak took the new gloves he’d made the younger man from the desk pushed up against the wall and handed them over.

Damar stared at the accessory with a look of awe. He studied the soft, dark, ruddy-brown leather and the golden embroidery and seemed to even breathe reverently. He stripped off his old gloves and put the new ones on, rubbing his fingers together and making fists. He smiled.

“You, ah, kissed me earlier,” he said.

“I did,” Garak said simply, cocking his head, curious as to where this was going.

“You missed. Do you want to try again?”

Garak couldn’t control his expression for a moment. Had Julian been there, he might’ve called it a ‘shit-eating’ grin, and explained the history of the term. But he wasn’t, so Garak wrapped an arm around Damar’s waist and pulled him close, pressing a firm but gentle kiss to the slighter man’s lips.

They left it there for the night, both understanding that Damar wasn’t in the right frame of mind for any further relationship exploration, wrung out from his chat with Ezri. He did, however, ask if he could lay with Garak that night even though the rains were still a few days away.

“Any time,” Garak answered.

With the supplement, Damar’s health improved dramatically over the next few months, his hair coming in thicker. He decided he liked it long and left it, enjoying the intimacy of Garak brushing it for him. He started modeling clothes for Garak when he had opportunities to take on commissions, and started helping in the garden in the early morning hours when there was no one else out and about. Six months into the supplements, he weighed seventy-two kilograms – still a bit underweight, but he was starting to get a bit of muscle definition again, filling out the clothes Garak made him wonderfully.

He eventually met Haneri, and laughed through her fangirl moment. Though she’d promised to keep him a secret, she’d let it slip to a friend, most likely the one whose gushing review of his bag had Garak up to his neck in personal orders, and everyone and their mother wanted to meet the hero Damar.

For some time, Damar was easily overwhelmed by socializing, writing as much to Ezri, even spending a little time in the closet when someone got too grabby. But he recovered fairly quickly, talking to Garak if it was too much to handle on his own. He let the affectionate older man steal the occasional kiss, and watched over his host’s shoulder as he corresponded with Julian and, on a few occasions, with Nog. The young Ferengi had been excited to hear from Julian that root beer had become so popular on Cardassia, and asked about what other off-world foods were sneaking into the market.

Damar was sleeping alongside Garak often enough that they just pushed the two cots together. Neither had tried to escalate the relationship beyond Garak occasionally lending a helping hand when Damar needed to clean himself, but was having a particularly rough week and unable to fantasize. The older man didn’t stop himself from being affectionate then, giving Damar slow and intense, thorough kisses, drinking up every sound Damar made from surprised gasps to deep, resonating murmurs of approval. Sometimes Garak would work two fingers into Damar’s weeping slit just to hear his moans pitch higher, thumbing his cock the entire time.

When Garak started getting bitey, Damar gave him space to take care of himself.

When news of Damar’s survival spread to the New Civilian Government, he was asked to come sit in on meetings and panels, and offered a small but workable salary. He was hesitant at first, but Garak convinced him to take the offer, and it wound up being very rewarding.

As much as Garak protested, a small group of workers had been assigned to help him rebuild his childhood home. City officials insisted. They also decided that they’d run the paperwork for Garak, handling all the red tape that came with one building being both a store and a residence. Garak’s Clothiers would live again.

With his hair and missing scales back, Damar’s recovery was going well, though he still wore the leather gloves every day. He kept his long hair tied back in a ribbon at the base of his neck since he was no longer with the military, and set fashion trends with whatever Garak made for him that wasn’t a dress. He’d come to find that he adored silky nightgowns for sleeping in, but drew the line at wearing women’s clothes in public.

Damar weighed seventy-five kilograms just over one year into his recovery, on the day he leaned over Garak at his workstation, grinning with a confidence he hadn’t had since he decided he would save his homeland, whatever it took. He was a healthy weight, that day, when he took Garak’s surprised face in his hands and kissed him breathless, his tongue doing maddening things to Garak’s mind and lower scales. One year, one month, zero weeks and three days into his stay with the man he’d grown to think of as his home, his shelter from the storm, he said what was to Garak at once wonderful and horrifying. Both the best news he’d ever received and a little piece of his heart being ripped out;

“I think I should move out and live on my own for a little bit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic ate my life.


	6. One Decade

Everything seemed to come back online in quick succession; electricity, running water to all homes, and shortly after, dust-removal and air filtration systems. Then, civilian transport became easily accessible and very nearly free. Major cities became bustling hubs of information and commerce again, and clean water and medical supplies were often trucked to smaller towns and desert encampments that were still being repaired. Death rates dropped and infant mortality quickly became a thing of the past.

Haneri was the one to take Damar shopping for his basic toiletries when the man finally settled on an apartment. She preened like one of the colorful flightless birds from the southern forests, parading him around like a prized hound. He bore it with an amused smile, greeting everyone she wanted to introduce him to. Her _chufa_ was bluer than usual that day, a healthy flush at her excitement.

“Efficient,” had been Garak’s appraisal of Damar’s apartment, and his code word for ‘claustrophobic.’ The younger man still visited Garak, almost daily, in fact. He admitted to feeling lonely when trying to sleep, staying close to the older man and touching him unnecessarily in the few hours they got together each day. Garak didn’t get much work done during those hours, but he didn’t complain about it either.

Damar would often grace Garak with lingering kisses that left him aching for more. He’d take his leave of the older man after getting him worked up just enough to start nipping, giving a deep and hearty laugh as he breezed out the door to Garak’s shop. He’d glance back over his shoulder to find Garak gazing after him, and he’d swipe his tongue over his bottom lip just to watch the heat in Garak’s intimidating gaze intensify. A true Cardassian courtship if there ever was one; tease, withdraw, insult, hint, deny. Though there were nights that Damar would stay over, all thoughts of relationship advancement put on hold due to lingering anxiety, to the day being just a little too much to handle alone.

A year and a half into their new situation, their relationship became distinctly sexual. It became more than Damar’s supposed inability to fantasize and open his purse to clean himself, begging for Garak’s fingers and the larger body crushing him against the wall of the shower. It happens when the weather is growing warm out, even for a Cardassian. When Garak is wearing a shirt with sleeves that only come down to his elbow, slits all the way up to his shoulders, and Damar notices a bite mark on the bared arm.

“What’s this?” he asked, wrenching Garak’s arm up, away from the mug of tea his hand had been resting next to.

“Ah,” Garam breathed, a sudden shock of arousal coursing through him at the use of Damar’s renewed strength. He crossed his ankles to resist spreading his legs when Damar hooked his foot around the chair and turned it, leaning over him and holding his wrist. Damar’s nostrils flared as he studied the mark with narrowed eyes.

“Well?” he demands.

“I fear I’ve been a bit, ah, rough with myself in recent weeks,” Garak admits, lowering his lashes. The intended effect is lost to the grin that splits his lips. Damar inclined his head, encouraging Garak to continue. “I’m not usually the biting sort, _my dear_ ,” the older man very nearly purred, “but with how you abandon me, leaving me positively _throbbing_ , I want nothing more than to sink my teeth into you to hold you still so I can rut against you until I find completion. Without you, my body must bear the brunt of my affections.” Halfway through his dirty talk, Garak curled his hand into a fist and pulled – a challenge of Damar’s strength.

After a sharp intake of breath, Damar pulled back, answering the challenge. “Abandon you,” he growled angrily. “I do no such thing. I have no obligation to see to your pleasure, we’re not married. Hell,” a strange colloquialism integrated into his regular speech, “we’re not even dating.” He drew nearer to Garak, his scales thrumming with the energy of the moment.

“Fair enough,” Garak said, struggling to keep his voice even as Damar thrust a booted foot between his nearly bare legs, a barely-there pair of summer trousers doing nothing to protect him from the rough scrape of a boot as it forced his ankles uncrossed. “But I think you could stand to return the favor, considering how many times you’ve slicked my palm with my name on your lips.” He continued to pull, sitting up a little straighter to bring his face closer to Damar’s. “With how many times I’ve given you pleasure,” he hissed, trailing off.

“Like an eager little _whore_ ,” Damar pushed out through his teeth, kicking Garak’s legs open.

“Me, a whore?” Garak barked out a laugh, turning his chin up just enough that their noses would brush and the scales would catch. He dropped his voice to a whisper, “I wasn’t the one writhing and begging.” Swinging his foot around between Damar’s, Garak pushed out and the younger man gave. Crumpled right into the tailor’s lap, no longer pulling at Garak’s wrist, rather simply holding it to keep himself upright. He surged forward and took Garak’s lips in a fierce kiss, moaning in response when Garak groaned, watching his eyelids flutter. Pushing himself as close to the other as he could, Damar savaged Garak’s mouth, licking and sucking, nipping when he had to draw back for air.

Any effort Garak made to speak was silenced by another brutal kiss, a hand on the hard ridges of his neck, a thumb drawing circles on the sensitive underside. When Damar started to rut against him in the middle of his kitchen, not yet in bloom, Garak didn’t think, the older man had to slow things down. He gave Damar a little shove with his free hand, holding him back at that distance. Damar panted and squeezed Garak’s wrist, brow ridges drawn together in confusion.

“My dearest,” Garak hissed, a shameful need tinging his rasp, “it is getting dreadfully hard not to bite you. If you’re not ready for a little something more, I think we should calm ourselves a bit.”

“Garak. I want whatever you’ll give me,” Damar said, tilting his head and exposing his neck in such a blatant display of submission that Garak hadn’t seen since he’d bed a Risian eager to sample a new kind of cock. Garak had to tip his head back and close his eyes for a moment not to throw Damar down on the ground and start fussing with his trousers right then. After a few deep breaths he felt fingers sliding up his palm until Damar’s gloved one was pressed flush to his. He opened his eyes and caught Damar’s gaze. “Garak,” he said lowly.

“My dearest Corat,” was the soft response. “Stand up, please. Oh hush,” Garak added when Damar started to complain. “I must have you and your trousers are in the way.”

“And wouldn’t a bed be better for your aching joints?” Damar couldn’t help but tease. He grinned when Garak gave him a half-hearted glare, and took off for the bedroom.

He tried to duck behind a dresser, but Garak was hot on his heels. The tailor grabbed him and all but tossed him onto the bed, climbing on top of him before he could even wriggle up to the pillows. A needy little hissing noise escaped Garak as he stared down at his captive, trying to mesmerize him with his eyes. It worked, Damar caught up in that wanton glare, running his fingers up the bigger man’s biceps to give them a squeeze. He tipped his head back slightly, though not enough to break eye contact, and muttered a, “please?”

Garak shuddered, trying to remember the last time he was so aroused that he had to restrain himself. He must’ve been a teenager, he reckoned as he went for the fastenings of Damar’s pants. “Shirt off,” he growled, fumbling with the pants. Damar couldn’t help but chuckle as he pulled his loose, long-sleeved shirt off, letting it fall to the side. He left on the gloves he was wearing, a black and silver design of Garak’s, and trailed them up his chest, dipping his fingers into his own _chula_ in a lusty little display. “Really,” Garak complained, finally popping the fastenings open, “who designed these infuriating trousers?”

Damar laughed, moving his hands down to Garak’s neck ridges. “You did,” he answered, lifting his hips so the other could pull the pants down to his boots, which were slipped off as Garak groused;

“I would never create something so rude,” with a huff. When all of Damar’s clothes except his gloves cast aside, Garak knelt on the floor before him, pushing his legs open with his hands. “Oh, my handsome, delectable, dearest,” Garak praised, holding Damar’s thighs splayed when he tried to close them. He leaned forward and breathed, “you look marvelous,” against the swollen slit.

Damar squirmed, fighting back a protest of Garak’s praise, a surprised, “uh!” working its way out of him when the older man mouthed over the throbbing scales. A tongue sought out every trace of lubricant that escaped, carefully, tenderly, and Damar couldn’t help pushing against the plush muscle. “Damn!” Damar cried out when Garak blew softly over the wet scales.

“Bloom for me, dear. I want to taste you,” Garak pleaded, his fingers tightening on Damar’s thighs.

“Oh, you mean there are other uses for your mouth aside from endlessly chattering?” Damar teased, turning a sly smile down at Garak.

“Oh yes. It has many uses,” Garak said, stopping only to lick away a bead of lubricant that seeped through the seam of the scales and gathered, “I have a particularly keen sense of taste. I can detect poisons and spice a dish to perfection.” He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a breath and running his tongue over his teeth to resist the urge to bite, savoring the taste of Damar. “Do you want to know what that sense is telling me right now?” Garak asked, shifting his hands around to the sides of the slimmer man’s thighs, pulling him even further down the bed, turning his face into the sensitive inner thigh.

“What?” Damar gasped.

“Mm, that you’re hiding a delicious treat from me, my dear. Don’t make me beg. I tend to get a bit nippy when forced to beg,” Garak said, punctuating his words with a sharp nip to the quivering muscle in his grip.

Damar jolted and cursed, one set of gloved fingers threading in Garak’s hair. “One day,” he started, his mouth hanging open when he paused, “I _will_ hear you beg. But, oh, that day is not today. I can’t torture myself that long.”

Garak outright moaned when Damar bloomed, the thick but short pith of the younger man’s pleasure peeking through the blood-darkened, drenched slit. Damar couldn’t quite understand what Garak found so enchanting about his mangled _prUt_ , far too large to be a _vit_ and the tiny extension that served as his urethra made it obvious that he wasn’t a masculine woman, but he found that he didn’t quite care when Garak’s mouth closed around him. He howled his pleasure, making a fist in Garak’s hair, pushing himself up against the wet, eager mouth. Garak’s growl rumbled up through his prick, and Damar couldn’t keep in the loud, low, rumbling moans, keening when an agile tongue laved over it, then under and into his purse, lips suckling all the while.

Damar was vaguely aware of the loss of the pressure on his thighs, only spreading them wider when they were no longer supported. He couldn’t hear the shuffling of fabric over his own exaggerated breath, but he could feel Garak moving, the angle of his tongue changing as he shifted.

“Garak, please,” Damar moaned, finally getting enough control over his motor function to pet Garak’s hair. He gave a frustrated groan when Garak pulled back.

“Elim,” Garak corrected, making and holding eye contact. He maintained the stare as he dipped his head, swirling his tongue around the tender nub.

“Elim,” Damar roared, fisting both hands in Garak’s hair when the older man took him fully in his mouth again. One finger found its way into his purse. It was quickly followed by a second, working their way in to the knuckles, trying to find the back of the short passage.

Damar thrashed through his orgasm, Garak’s spare hand snapping up to push Damar down, the added pressure on his _chuva_ making the feeling that much more intense. Garak licked and sucked until Damar was spent and oversensitive, groaning and pushing at the growling man’s head.

Garak reared back, still growling. His neck ridges were dark with his arousal, swollen, making him look like a cobra ready to strike, intimidating even with the evidence of what he did to Damar all over his face. The younger man couldn’t help but make a little noise of fear at that look, the sound becoming a whimper as Garak slowly, carefully removed his fingers. He brought them to his mouth and licked them clean, still growling, still glaring up at Damar.

“Elim,” Damar said, a questioning lilt to his voice.

“Hush, darling, unless you want me to stop,” Garak said, getting to his feet. Damar got a brief look at Garak before his legs were pressed together and slung over one of the man’s shoulders; his hair a mess, his pants hallway down his thighs, his fat, tapered, dark pink length fully everted and glistening. He was the picture of debauchery with his clothes still half on, lips swollen.

Holding Damar’s knees together, Garak bent the younger man in half, planting his free hand beside the other’s head. Damar drew in a soundless breath, tensing as Garak’s prick nudged its way between his thighs. “Gorgeous,” Garak growled, giving a little thrust. “Oh, Corat,” he hissed, pushing harder, bending Damar further. He pressed a series of gentle kisses along Damar’s neck ridges, up to his aural ridges, following them down his jaw and finally taking his lips before he started thrusting in earnest.

Damar was surprised by how intimate the moment was without even being penetrated. Garak picked up the pace when Damar reached out to stroke the older man’s aural ridges, murmuring encouragements against Garak’s lips. Damar used his off hand to brace himself against Garak’s thrusts, slipping his fingers back into Garak’s hair and wishing he could feel it directly on his fingers.

“So good for me, Corat,” Garak drawled reverently. “Make me feel so good. _So good_ ", he breathed, squeezing Damar’s knees and sighing when he came. He continued languidly thrusting, brushing soft kisses against Damar’s lips until he could blink the post-orgasmic haze from his eyes. “Absolutely wonderful,” he said, easing back, helping Damar stretch out his legs.

“Damn, Elim, I can’t take anymore,” Damar said, weakly squirming and pushing at Garak’s head when the older man leaned down and started sucking his thighs clean.

Garak gave a small chuckle and laid down next to Damar, reaching out and resting one hand on the hero’s stomach, worming the other under the prone man’s head. He toyed with the hair that had come loose of its ribbon while Damar just folded his hands on his stomach and looked satisfied.

“Mm, staying tonight?” Garak asked.

“Yeah,” Damar answered, turning toward Garak. He took the hand that had been resting on his stomach in one of his and pressed their palms together. “Definitely.”

They don’t put a label on their relationship. Not then, not a year from then when Damar is working his way up the ranks of the New Civilian Government, not when Garak’s Clothiers is flourishing enough to attract off-world clientele. They don’t put a label on Damar rubbing his bud against Garak’s moist genital slit until the older man can’t help but bloom. They don’t call it anything in particular when they spend hours laying in Garak’s bed, just kissing and talking. They don’t even mention the intense longing they see on each other’s faces when they leave for trips lasting longer than a few days; Damar on political adventures, Garak to trade shows. They don’t put a label on it, even though they’re exclusive despite Garak’s repeated insistence that he wouldn’t be upset if Damar pursued other cravings.

“Elim,” he’d said, a fond exasperation in his voice, “you’re the only one who will have me. Anyone else will take one look at my _kratprUt_ and-”

“My dear,” Garak cooed, running his fingers through his lover’s long hair, “there are many unique species and cultures out there with many views on sexuality. You should explore them while you have the chance.”

“Is that your way of saying you’re getting to old to satisfy me?” Damar teased with a raised brow ridge.

Challenge accepted, Garak brings Damar to orgasm twice with just his fingers in his purse, not once touching his prick.

They don’t put a label on their relationship by the time Julian and Ezri get married, and they go to the wedding on Trill. It’s a beautiful ceremony, but Damar can’t help but watch Garak instead. The man preened at seeing Julian in one of his creations on such an important day, and seemed generally happy for him. Damar wasn’t stupid – he’d picked up pretty quickly on the fact that Garak had, at one point, had feelings for the groom. But he seemed content, and the younger Cardassian couldn’t help but wonder if he was holding something back because Damar had become friends with Ezri, if maybe he was afraid Damar would say something to her. He wouldn’t, but Garak couldn’t know that. Damar wouldn’t even talk about his own romantic feelings with Ezri, much less someone else’s. He was sure Ezri had figured him out, but she never said anything. If that was the case, surely she’d figured out Garak, too.

They still don’t put a label on it, seven years since Damar was rescued from a rogue Jem’Hadar ship, when he moves back in with Garak. He reasons that he spends too much time at Garak’s home to pay for one of his own. Garak just folds him in his arms and takes him to _their_ bedroom.

When he’s struck speechless one morning, by just how handsome he finds Garak when he’s complaining about the first strands of silver in his hair, he still doesn’t call it anything. He can’t think to when all he wants to do is wrap his arms around the man from behind and kiss his aural ridges. He doesn’t give it a label then, but the seed is planted.

Garak has a friendly banter about ethics with Julian in their letters.

Damar writes Ezri about his desire to raise children again.

Eventually, Damar does work up the courage to contact April’s parents, Garak there for support. He’s a little surprised that they’re both still alive. They’re a little surprised that there are gay Cardassians, considering what they’ve heard about the society. Garak laughs, but doesn’t correct them. Neither does Damar. They tell Damar about her memorial stone, and thank him for his kind words about their daughter. He thanks them for listening and promises to visit the stone. Garak is proud. So is Ezri.

With how tender of a lover Garak has been, and how good of a friend he is to Damar, the younger man sometimes forgets his dearest was an agent of the Obsidian Order. He thinks Garak might’ve forgotten too, considering how surprised he looked when he dropped a man who had attempted to mug them while on vacation. The look on his face said, ‘oops,’ while they waited for security with an unconscious man at their feet.

It slips out one night when Garak has him straddled, their palms pressed together – gloves off because he’d been craving scale-on-scale contact – riding Damar’s stubby length. He’s spread so wide, grinding down on Damar, not yet everted, but dripping wet.

“I love you,” Damar said before he could stop himself.

Garak groans, “tell me that again when you’re not inside me.”

Damar wants to make a quip about there not being enough to be inside Garak, but whatever he’s doing, it feels amazing, so he doesn’t argue.

He does tell him again, later, when they’re visiting April’s memorial stone.

“I never would have been able to come here without you,” he starts, pressing his palm to Garak’s, “I wouldn’t have been able to honor her memory, or give her parents closure. I would have killed myself.” There was a long moment where they just pressed their foreheads together. “I love you.”

“And I, you,” Garak answered with a reserved smile.

They don’t make a big deal out of getting married, having a fairly small ceremony and a light meal afterward. Julian and Ezri had been excited to attend, and their daughter miraculously didn’t cry throughout the entire event. Damar had invited a few of his friendlier colleagues and their families, and they’d been the bulk of the attendees. Garak had invited a couple of his regular customers and Haneri, her plus one a Bajoran man.

“That’s progressive of you,” Garak broached the subject over dinner.

“I don’t know what’s progressive about a big dick, but I’ll take the compliment anyway,” she answered.

Julian choked on his food and Ezri laughed so hard she shed a tear.

Perhaps the most excited of all to attend was Keiko. She’s insisted on providing the floral arrangements for the event, and greeted everyone with the widest smile. She’d even convinced Molly to take a few weeks off from the academy to join her and Miles and Kirayoshi.

Nog and Quark and Rom and Leeta had shown up, too, as one big, happy family. Surprisingly, Quark kept his comments to himself, though his facial expressions alone kept the guests amused for hours. Leeta gushed over their ceremonial robes.

Maybe the event wasn’t as small as they’d intended it to be, but apparently they had made some friends over the past few years.

Even Kira showed up, though she sat in the back and remained quiet.

When it had dwindled down to just the familiar faces and the newly married couple, Kira came over to congratulate them. She gave them each a firm and lingering pat on the arm.

“Who are you, and what have you done with the Kira Nerys I know?” Damar asked. Everyone else laughed. He was serious.

Cardassians didn’t measure years in decades, rather in twelve year sets that any universal translator spits out in English as ‘dodecades,’ and one of those dodecades since Damar’s escape from Hell, he finds himself in Heaven. He’d never told Garak about the concept of Heaven, but he didn’t need to. He was sure the older man had done his own cross-cultural religious studies and could easily make the comparison to their lives, happily bouncing Haneri’s young son on his knee. He played with the child while Garak fretted around the shop, pointedly ignoring Haneri’s 'horrible, awful' suggestions.

“You’re wearing women’s clothes,” Haneri complained when Garak shot down another one of her ideas, “why do you care if it gets a little festive in here?”

“I’m not putting green and purple together. They simply. Don’t. Match. Not even as streamers.”

How Garak managed to look both masculine and dignified in a straight, stiff black dress with deep red trim was beyond Damar, but the view was beautiful, and the way the light caught the silver streaks in his hair gave him a tender feeling.

Later that evening, after Haneri had pried her child from a reluctant Damar’s hold, while closing down the shop for the weekend rains, Garak caught a glimpse of Damar feeling a piece of fabric with his bare hand out of the corner of his eye. He watched his lover consider the fabric for a moment, thinking briefly about how he’d hated being a tailor on Deep Space Nine and for so long afterward. He was in the profession for eleven years before he actually warmed up to it, and was still being surprised every day at the treasure trove of people he met in his career.

He almost sighed out loud when Damar slipped his glove back on. The younger man had eventually gotten the broken bone fixed, but he left his fingers gnarled and never had new tissues synthesized to replace his _prUt_. He needed something to remember what had happened, to keep him moving forward. Memories could become frayed, fragmented and fade, but scars were solid proof. Garak understood that. Garak also understood that Damar had gotten used to the changes in his body, had even started to like what he had if his crass language while Garak had his mouth on him was any indication. He'd sworn that if he'd had a full-length prick, Garak surely would have killed him with pleasure before asking Garak to open his purse with his _prUt_.

When Damar turned to him and raised his brow ridges, inclining his head toward the bedroom, Garak grinned.

On his way there, he recalled a conversation they’d had some years ago, when Damar was having a bit of a nervous breakdown. Damar had decided once more that he was actually dead, and that his penance had almost been completed. He’d thought then that he was allowed to enjoy his afterlife, and had thrown his arms around Garak’s neck.

As Garak gave a playful nip to Damar’s cheek, he thought, if he had to live with an eternity of this, that would be just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a saaap. [Over-dramatic Romulan face]


End file.
